/lit/ - Literature

At first I had tried to rhyme "Gabby"
But all I could think of was "Flabby"
To use her nickname
A dangerous game
So I changed it, to not make her crabby

Then I wrote with "Gabrielle"
Character: Sure, sweet and swell
Near her I'm nervous
Makes all of my words twist
I called her the "Ball of the Belle"

Thou I see in a nightmare; gate of death,
I pass beyond the realms of living breath,
Where deeper darkness has its icy sphere,
The fear of men, the end of years of years. 

Beyond the gate I saw the garrison,
Abaddon lead the hosts of the prison,
Woe, black winged sorrow and laments useless,
I saw them circle Caesar and Brutus.

All the great men of earth, I saw them weep,
Their thunderous voices, but bleating sheep,
Among the sons of man, who has power?
Man is but a flower for hell’s bower.

In the bowels I saw a chasm bright,
Above the abyss, paradisal light,
Faces made vast; Stephen and Lazarus,
I saw them robed in glory by Jesus.

Who's freckles frame entirety beside me,
But hers who's silence stifles our development,
My love, don't leave me to sulk and seethe
In silence, share yourself with me and death.

There once was a plumber from Leigh
Who was plumbing a maid by the sea
Cried the maid "Stop your plumbing!
I think someone's coming!"
Called the plumber, still plumbing, "It's me!"

Play the game
Win or lose
None to blame if false you choose

>>19191722
imagine not being a native english speaker
the metre is wrong, your syllable counting is wrong, the literal words and the way they are written scream trite filler, and those rhymes are a stretch with normal pronunciation - or do you think people just read these to sound stupid?

>>19193651
similar to above but yours was worse

>>19193731
similar to the prior comment, but yours is worse

>>19193776
my meter and rhyming are entirely correct you silly man

>>19193729
best one yet

Did reading and writing poetry come natural to you? I feel as though I don’t “get it” and I’m more than a little upset about it.

>>19193793
rhyme-y time-y blimey slimy

THE NAIAD

I fell a night and half a day
____Through those Elysian tracts
Where, windblown, fly the willow leaves
____And petals slip their bracts

I felt the glow of lantern lights,
____All garland decked in blue.
Spread blooms of freckled amaranth
____Above a grin of dew.

I stood at peace, a little while,
____Beside that conjured Muse
Whose glance I caught, a little while,
____And held. And was refused.

Oh I! ejected from that bower
____Need only to recall:
Those eyes, that breeze; their limpid power
____And, once again, I fall.


>>19191722
Stanza 2 reads weird to me, as does the internal rhyme of "flower" between "power"/"bower". Maybe "a bloom within" or something.

There once was a girl named Claire
Who had big, bushy hair
It got stuck in the door
She fell to the floor
And then she was mauled by a bear

>>19193793
Listen to the greatest reading of my favorite poem:
https://youtu.be/kh9uxbYQq0s

Then buy this

>>19193776
It’s in syllabic not metrical and each line is 10 syllables. I’m actually wondering if you’re ESL due to the syllabic miscount desu. Which line do you read that isn’t in 10? If I’m wrong so be it, but I don’t see it.

I need
I need
Tree Fiddy
I need

>>19193785

If you’re this guy

>>19193651
The poem is fine.

>My love, don't leave me to sulk and seethe

“Me to sulk” is the only oddity since it’s a pyrrhic/anapest and not iambic, but this is a very common substitution especially when using these contentless unstressed terms, you can see even Shakespeare make such substitutions.

>share yourself with me and death.


This is the only part where the meter gets iffy, SHARE your SELF with ME and DEATH,

Which is fine but I can see someone trying to read it your SELF with me and DEATH.

Again it’s fine.

>>19191674
i poo poo
i pee pee
i do do
the poetry
women
have ovaries
pee pee
poo poo
deedee
doodoo

>>19194142
How do I get this good with words? This isn't even my favorite poetry and I wonder if it is possible for a modern person to conjure something as eloquent as this. I can't imagine becoming this fluent in my own language, let alone English. How long did these poets work on their poems? Did they sit down with a thesaurus or did they internalize this much of a vocabulary?

>>19193651
I think you mean "whose".

>>19194208
Reading a bunch of poetry and internalizing the methodology and theories since the ancients is how many of them do it.

https://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dionysian_imitatio

Cicero among others are some of the key ancients on the topic of imitating and modeling your verses and prose on the greatest possible sources, multiple sources at once being the key. There are of course more complex methods, check out Poe’s philosophy of composition and Swinburne’s writings on other poets and you’ll get a very good look into their minds, it’s usually a very long process of study, constant practice, constant refinement and so forth. (Ignoring freaks of nature, of course.)

>>19194208
I like that that poem has the power on you I was hoping it would. Thomas Grey had 13 poems ever that he felt were good enough to show the world and they are all, if you'll pardon my vulgarity, transcendant in their perfection. That poem is my ideal. How do you get that good? I do not know. Also, you might just not have a seed to cultivate, as sad as it is.

For my two cents, this >>19194099 is my offering for today. If it has any value, which would lend itself to some value in my palavering a mite on mein own development as a poetry enthusiast (rather than a poet, though you could call me a poetaster): you find poems that speak to your heart, you think about them, you have your own emotional life experiences that inspire you to attempt to emulate them, cycle that, try to innovate, fail fail fail, maybe succeed in growing a bit, cycle that, keep reading, keep analyzing your emotions, write down analogies or imagery that seem particularly poignant to you, try to incorporate them, doodly doo yadda dadda, and when you really get hooked by a line or two that strike you as good, bite down and let the art reel you in for as long as the test can hold your fat ass.

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than
the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when
Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

>>19194251
Imo, it’s essential that you find poetry and prose which isn’t your ideal and isn’t appealing to you based on emotional sympathy, but in terms of raw quality, I constantly mention Swinburne because, despite of our opposing emotions and religious-political beliefs, his quality leaves me no choice, finding a powerful section and trying to write it from memory over and over, playing with the meter, singing it out loud to yourself and so forth, these very mechanical tools can be very useful imo.

Example, if you break apart this piece of Shakespeare, contemplating it, replicating it, modifying it, and just spent a month on it, what other choice will you have but to learn how words work better?

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.

>>19194289
Challenge accept, you glorious anachronism you.

>>19194298
You have to go back.

>>19194311
To?

>>19194251
Yours is a nice poem anon. You'll be happy to know that it reads as something from the period, genuinely Romantic.

>>19194318
I really appreciate that, man. I have hit a wall in the last year and a half, with how stressful work has been through COVID (I work at group homes with disabled people). I worked on a friend's schooner for a week recently, cleared the air, felt freer than I had in a long time, met some great people, and built up the strength to reach out to someone I needed to apologize too. I am quite unclogged at the moment. Here are my other recent pieces:

CHIME

Fate blossoms an instant
To wither unplucked and die;
Beheld as perfection a moment
Retained, it remains in the eye.

Late to the harvest you tarry.
Strewn with the first fallen leaves,
The path neither beckons nor bars us
Or cares if we triumph or grieve.

Great is the Wheel in its turning!
Far more than the yearning of men
Crushed by their own aspirations
As they vacillate over again.

Sate while you can in the sunlight!
Blush and stand full as a rose!
Partake in the celebrant harvest
And its bounty, before it all goes.

AMTRAK REGULATIONS

In the wake of ducks
Atop the Georgia Highbridge
A V trail cut through
Placid mourning glass
Oh, this membrane
The pane upon the train
Nature out and stagnant in
Like breath within a mask

To meet that freer flock
A rosebud for an instant
Perfect and potentiate
An image and ideal
The riddle of an idyll
Swimming by my window:
What's to stop an aspirant
From joining with the air?

>>19194224
This is something I’ve picked up on writing prose fiction. The ever present challenge for me was actually not in the imitation but in choosing which writers to imitate.

>>19194383
Both Dionysius and Cicero speak on how to select, the key is you find the mightiest writers and these writers ideally should also have variety/diversity; a writer whose really good but monotone both in rhythm and style will be as a principle much less fruitful to study. What I do/did, is create 4 x 4 of favorite writers and I contemplate them, always go back to them, always go back to essays on their works, to re-reading them, to keeping them in mind when I write and so forth. Which isn’t to say you should be their slave, but this is how you can find out what you even like, the first step is finding your taste, once you find your taste you can find the techniques which cohere with your taste; and gradually you can built an aesthetic from the various sinew and flesh you’ve collected and your own ideas and experimentations.

FANTASM OF CRYSTAL

Fantasm of crystal illume
The spectral delusions of my
Paradisal mental gloom,

I sing not of the earthen eye
Made resplendent by humanly
Acquired riches lacking I,

Songs from an ancient wrinkled sea
Engraved with sigil-vowels wrought
Writhing through the essence of me,

These songs I sing of sun and naught
But one and not the many grey
Beguiled illusions born from thought,

Shimmers molten forms casting stray
Unknown and eldritch living lights
Into an infinite array,

And with each light I see I write
Aleph in the soul of my soul
Adorned with omegas of night,

Look upon this the inmost scroll
Where writ are the words of idols
Bound eternally to extol,

I.


unnamed poem written in 30 minutes
looms the light over the hill,
strand on strand diaphanous,
when the fire becomes still,
I must behold myself thus.

serpent on serpent in shroud,
God veiled in allegories,
hid by the temporal cloud,
revealed by the eye’s glories.

tempest but a tapestry,
voices of writhing thunder,
voices of raging fire,
all veils of my magistry.

I am girth about the world,
the Twofold fire is mine,
I am girth about the word,
behold thou my true name; ain.

Shit cuh, there ain't no rhyme and flow to dat whack ass poetry. show these white bois how its done.

I was told I have a big black Juicy cock!
That's why all the white girls make their pussy pop
For a real ass nigga like me-e-e-e-e!
I have a ten inch dick, so they get right on their knees

I had one white hoe that I said that I'm too dark
I pulled out my penis and I fucked her at the park
And they say I'm very smart but I don't have a degree
I hit up my lil' college bitch she's topping me for free!
I be chillin' in my bed with some porn my tv
And she be texting me cause I got a BBC
Yeah my dick is big as fuck and I'm very, very, black
I showed it to my neighbor and she had a heart attack!
But I knew she was racist and she liked Donald Trump
I pulled out my penis and I put it in her cunt!
But no, no, no, I swear it wasn't rape!
She tried to top me off while I filmed it on a tape
And I love to wake and bake with some pussy on my face
I get the sloppy toppy then I take her on a date
I don't care, I don't care about a bitch's race
All I give a fuck about is how the pussy tastes

>>19194788
pure autism
mutt's law

>>19194799
can't compete
wit da black beast

soul is crumbling
hell is rumbling
take some pills and im stumbling

This is not a poem.

This is whatever you say it is.

>>19194879
Cooming in Public

>>19194143
>Woe, black winged sorrow and laments useless,
This would often be read as 11, with "winged" pronounced as two.
>Their thunderous voices, but bleating sheep,
This would usually be read as nine, with thunderous as two.

You can make your intended readings explicit by writing "wing'd" and "thunder-ous". Although this would be old-fashioned, so's your poem.

The rhyme is slant as fuck though, and unfixable without a full rewrite.

>>19193793
I feel as though it did, but to be fair I had a substantial amount of exposure to the medium even from a young age, so it's hard to say if it's truly natural, or simply easy enough that difficulties go unremembered.

I will also say that to "get it" isn't necessarily the goal. It's as much about vibes; about feeling, as it is about meaning.

>>19194208
To truly be good at it, it helps to have intelligence, talent, and inborn skill with language as well as a whole lot of experience with it. However, theoretically this just makes it more easy and intuitive, and it should be possible to substitute effort for talent. People who are professional poets do spend a lot of time on exact wording, generally, but the more you know, the easier it gets. That's a matter of internalizing things.

Since a couple people have thoughts like this, perhaps before bed I'll write up a short little essay.

>>19194360
For what it's worth, your Naiad was the one in this thread that most strongly hit me with the feeling that I most often seek from poetry. Though the wording feels fanciful and the meaning is, unless entirely literal, hard to grasp (perhaps due to my ignorance) I feel it nonetheless.

>>19194788
Although it's posted for the purpose of shitposting I'm sure, and braggadocio isn't to my taste, it's not like this isn't valid as a poem. Certainly better than >>19194869

>>19195354
Anon, winged is 1 syllable, you say winged not Wing-ed, and thunderous is always 3, what are you talking about. Like, I even checked a dictionary to see what you’re talking about and it’s still not the amount of syllables you’re saying.

Standard for winged=Wingd
Standard for thunderous=Thuhn-dr-uhs

How would read in normal texts winged as wing-id? And I’m genuinely asking, under what circumstance is thunderous ever two syllables?

So.

When it comes to getting into poetry, in terms of becoming able to appreciate it, the most readily approachable are those that use standard modern language. A poem that became popular recently, among people without necessarily any special schooling; "The Tiger":

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

It is simple, it conveys emotion, and we see the power and intention; in such a short time we sympathize with the tiger. Compare it to William Blake's "The Tyger":

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

This one focuses on the relationship between the observer and the tyger, and it requires additional context to realize that perhaps it's actually talking about English control over India, but in any case the emotion isn't there; it feels musing at best. That isn't to say it's not valid in its own way, but it doesn't resonate so readily.

>>19195520
Now, let's consider something with meaning still less clear, but with a feeling more apparent:

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

When it comes to format, this is very loose, almost sloppy. But it's by E.E. Cummings, who was well educated, yet consistently wrote this way by preference. Does it make sense? Not really. it's as confusing as Lewis Carol's Jabberwocky. But while that one is made simply to stimulate childish whimsy (and does so well), the busy monster can be supposed to be the reader, and confusion is part of the poem's purpose; the moroseness of society is conveyed even with a blatant failure to understand any metaphor. The device of a life seen from the outside, and in a negative light is as pervasive as in Terry Bisson's short story "They're Made of Meat". Anyway, this is a much contracted set of examples, but stepping like this should broaden an understanding of poetry. Ultimately, of course, reading more has a greater effect.

Now then.

As for composing poetry... I find the best way to be starting with a feeling, or an observation. To contrast to the high levels of sophistication one might see, here's what I whipped up in some five or ten minutes on request a few weeks ago:

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

The sun shines through the cedar
The moment is quiet
Last week I was tired
Today I can rest
As I sit, time passes
And sun shines through the cedar

▬—▬—▬—▬—▬

There's no real structure (other than repeating, and a staccato to the lines) I'm not exact about syllable count, there's no rhyme scheme. The only goal was to capture the moment; the feeling; the experience. The emotional focus of the poem. This is a starting point. The rest is ornamentation, and to be sure, it can improve a work, but it's not needed. Once you begin with a core, ornamentation and structure can be added after; it becomes a matter of effort. And in its simplicity, mine is the same as "the Tiger", that I started with, and both were composed by amateurs rather than renowned poets. In fact, that one is by a child, who was either especially skilled or simply stumbled onto a masterpiece; it happens. As far as ease of understanding goes, poems for children are readily accessible, and if you don't have a background in poetry there's no shame in starting there.

>>19195520
>>19195524

Brap

>>19191722
Christcuck needs a cope otherwise he would have roped.

>>19195448
No dictionary can contain the entirety of a language's usage, especially one so broadly used as English, but it seems you've chosen an especially shoddy example. These pronunciations aren't that rare. Although both are listed second (at least by these authors) they're more common in literary and religious texts, and your poem evokes both of those milieus. That being the case, your poem actually reads more shoddily to someone who's very familiar with English (and is more likely to have an internalized awareness of the pronunciation variation according to context; these are generally less known than variations according to usage) than an ESL. Personally, although I found your intended reading obvious when explicitly counting syllables, I defaulted to the unintended readings on my first read-through because of this.

>>19195448
Frater, this is your shortcoming: absolute dogmatic adherence to your idealized tradition of meter. You seriously think there are no examples in the corpus of English poetry where winged was two syllables or that context hasn't lent itself to thunderous being truncated? Within your realm, you are a better poet than I could ever hope to be. But until you can transcend your rigidity, you have hit your ceiling without even knowing it.

>>19191674
>A new poem for what its worth
>Could it be improved. If so how?
>Are the line breaks in the best order?

Cassandras
Hot and pretty

She's from the city
By the hills
Beverly Hills

Please
Cure my ills
With your love

My pretty
White, dove

>>19195354
If you want some exposition on the Naiad (which is a river nymph): from said sailing experience, one of the deck hands was my good friend's kind of little sister in the industry, whom I'd heard about but never met. I don't need to go into full detail, but she is a unique home-schooled personality with a skillset and comportment that appeals deeply to me, along with a country mouse naivete that hits me with a very melancholic nostalgia for an earlier era of my life (especially to be asked "what is your surname", a question I haven't heard since I stopped asking it in college when no one knew what I meant and the more cosmopolitan mores made last names irrelevant social indicators). The fact she excitedly described her own off-grid forestal cabin pipe dream in detail after I had casually mentioned my own similar "press a button, get a life" scenario to another crew member also had its wistfulness.

Behind the imagery is her face, in a moment where she was helping me to wash dishes, and I looked up as she was laughing at something I had said. I didn't really notice how pretty she was until that interaction, since I had been washing dishes for 14 hours and throwing up from late night risotto induced sea sickness on the sly afterwards. The falling I begin with is a double meaning of that fluttered emotion and the downward description of her face (from her hair, messy from sea wind; to her eyes as the lanterns and flowers, also we put deck lanterns out at night; to the flush she had in her cheeks; to a very perfect, Teen Vogue technique smile complete with tongue pressed behind).

The ejection from the bower, the refusal is a reflection, not of any actual spaghetti spilling on my part, but of the fact I am decidedly unlike my younger self which she reminds me very sadly of. There's a seven year age difference and I have spent over a decade in the isolation of trying to be the goon son in my brother's alcoholism, which is part of a continuing generational theme derailing normalcy for my family, all while working with the developmentally disabled. I have seen and handled more naked human bodies than anyone any of you are likely to know, and tried to see the beauty of our shared humanity in Guernican limbs, fungal infected folds, arthritic joints, etc. She described my personality as Dynamite, and it's true: I was at my best for that week. Gregarious, personable, a whir of jokes and energy, told I was a "hero" for being on point with the coffee at 5:50 AM and a "ray of positivity" in everyone's experience. For a week, I was a 20 year old camp counselor goof again.

But I'm 32. Anyone attracted to me for that week of dynamite has zero idea about my pervasive melancholy and struggles with suicidal ideation. I am not a fit partner for a nymph. I no longer belong in that bower. I am alone and will remain so. But that memory will stay with me, not bitterly, of a person who may still be what I once was.

End exposition.

>>19195691
>>19195354
Also, thank you again. Have some songs that I listened to on my 6 hour drive home after my week sailing that captured the mood.

https://youtu.be/LJB0nCv0qxk
https://youtu.be/c-zdWzabLII
https://youtu.be/KhV_nqBOfY4
https://youtu.be/-1pMMIe4hb4
https://youtu.be/J1reH0NBkvY

>>19194142
Thank you, anon

>>19193785
no

>>19194278
Good.

>>19195448
the other guy is right. people say wing-id and thun-drous

>>19191674
any books by poets worth buying?

>>19194278
very moving. thank you anon.

>>19194836
>improvement?

I take some pills
To cure my ills

For my soul, is crumbling
And Hell, Is rumbling

Now
I'm stumbling

As well
My life is hell

>>19195639
Now rate my shit faggots.

>>19196179
Your cadence
Is good

But I think
You should

Know where
You're weak:

Word choice?
Predictable

God, that shit reeks.

THEY’LL CALL ME DOG

She bites the air before her
My sun, my Sōn

She comes in iterations endless
The loveless yawn loud as I describe them, “adventure in a single pair of eyes? Absolute love to a glorified overbite?”

Until you’ve been peppered, seasoned, chiefly blessed by entities impervious to time’s confines, puppeted by the swift caress of untouched woman - then struck blind, memoryless, mammoryless, in an instant and after able still to ignore the world’s purport it never happened

You’re unready
See me, Sōn
I forfeit race
For the world

Bmo

>>19191674
Any reads with the same feel as the OP pic?
This kind of cozy, old tavern where a few usual clients drink their sorrows away. It would be a comfy fall read.

I knew a guy who'd write poetry and we'd go out drinking and he'd read me some of the stuff he had done recently.

Died under mysterious circumstances.

Roses are red
Daisies are white
Two in five trannies
Commit suicide

>>19195550
Scansion is supposed to give the benefit to the author. You read it as whatever works with the meter, as the author intends.

>An aged man is but a paltry thing

Aged in this case is two syllables, even though most English speakers would pronounce it as one. We find out the correct reading when studying the meter.

>>19198588
If it's well written, you shouldn't have to study the meter, it should be apparent. With "aged", it's apparent, and that IS the more literary reading, which is contrary to the issue of Asemlen's poem.

>>19198626
It's only apparent when you come to the end of the line, and it would only be apparent in any case if the word were at the end of the line. Milton chose to elide and use more "literary" forms of the same word whenever he felt like it, because poetry is music and the words are flexible.

Bump

Been writing for about 10 years now,
Please check my shit out. and i mean it, its shit.

Would love some honest opinions.

emotionalhierarchy. blogspot.com/

>>19196550
>Word choice?
Is my diction to simple for your liking?
Or is it something else?

>>19199900
Abstract and not fun to read.
Make them sorter and more literal.
>>19195520
>When it comes to getting into poetry, in terms of becoming able to appreciate it, the most readily approachable are those that use standard modern language

If you are commercially minded and want to have mass market appeal do this.

>here is my version of the tiger poem.

The Cock
by Nael, age 26

The cock
Destroyed its cage
Yes
YES
The cock is out

>>19200192

I have
To laugh
And think that
Somehow
I got through
Considering
Your earnestness
Was only in
My (you)

You seem
A posting regular
Within these
Homo threads
And your
Simplistic vocab?
Yeah
That was
The thing
I meant

It seems
A limitation
A self-boundary
In thought
Antipode
Of Asemlen
Your short
He's overwrought

Just think
Of innovating
Maybe
Every little while?
Who knows
You might
Just hone
And grow
And cultivate
Your style

anyone know any good youtube videos or such things that might help a man understand reading poetry. ive taken interest in it but i dont even know where to start as far as even interpreting a poem much less writing one

Leaves eating leaves
And blood
And that gore that's left
With every winter
Every Summer
Dirt eats too
Grains creep
OVer flesh and bone
Marred by wrath
A wrath unending
And wrought with vines
Of knowledge and death
They die outside

>>19191674
Joey Diaz

I stuck the draino
In my piss-hole
To fool the piss test
I fooled it just right

After that an assistant
Gave me a blowjob
Are you listening Tom Segura?
I couldn't stop cumming

That bitch had a wooden leg
Ha-ha
I got my head blown off
In Many Saints of Newark

Do you love me yet?

>>19195759
I love Kate Bush what a talented artist. She's beautiful also

The USS Hibernia looms over the vast sea.
Mightiest ship of the war that is most mighty.
In that ship, there is an overly joyous man who sings with a happy whistle.
His job is to blow up underwater missiles.
And in his splendor, he sings a tune.
“USS Hibernia, mightiest ship of them all.
USS Hibernia, standing over a mile tall.
USS Hibernia, never shall it fall!”
It was his break after many hour a work and he got out a bottle of wine.
“You can’t drink on the job” was his partners cautious piece of mind.
“Haha but you are a fool if you think, but a sip or even one drunkard is enough to bring down this ship and dash it’s parts asunder!”
As the joyous one drank, his partner thought “That looked to be more than but a sip, you’re not returning to your role for the good of this ship and the good of your soul”.
And he laughed it off and sung
“USS Hibernia, mightiest ship of them all.
USS Hibernia, standing over a mile tall.
USS Hibernia, never shall it fall!”
He fell into a slumber for he had not slept in a long time.
But his partner woke him up to give him the news of the ocean blues “There is a massive barrage coming to destroy our ship. We might be gone”.
“If so then I’m gonna pour me another one”.
So he engaged in merry drinking berry in that oversized war ferry.
He was beckoned to escape the havoc but instead he put a paper hat on his head and said “A captain always goes down with the ship”.
“But you aren’t the captain, you don’t have to go down”.
“Yes but I’m going down so look who’s the captain now”.
“How can you be so joyful and jesting in a time like this, you might die in a while”.
“My friend. If you can’t laugh at death, how can you live life with a smile?”
And so his friend went up and he stayed down and the ship was destroyed.
And he then clung to a piece of wreckage and sang.
“USS Hibernia, mightiest ship of them all.
USS Hibernia, standing over a mile tall.
USS Hibernia, never shall it fall!”

>>19200383
The Babooshka video is too good.

bump

end of history
death of god
dead and bloated
rotting dog

decrepit city
high technology
bloody ontology

Adele is skinny now
Wonder what her shit tastes like
Fat shits taste better

BBW
Drowning in your obese waste
You shit like a bear

Every post, tiresome and old
dumb pent- and diameters,
quite pathetically sold.

This board's il/lit/eracy
gets worse by the day,
each "poet" here adding
to the pile of mundane.

I'd finish a third verse,
but I think I made my point pretty clear: you all suck at this.

>>19191712
When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

fingers lost in silky fur
though its gay, i think of her
giant ears and bulging eyes
tail with buttplug, my behind

con is over, final day
nobody suspects im gay
passable, my female voice
tricking all these lonely boys

>>19201807
>My hand is
>lost in silky fur

>though its gay, i think of her

>The ears and eyes
>they tell lies

>A con
>Its on

>for the boys
>only

>Buts
>that's gay
>I know

>My butplug
>Show

>>19201930
>My hand is
>lost in silky fur

>though its gay, i think of her

>The ears and eyes
>they tell lies

>A con
>Its on

>for the boys
>only

>that's gay
>Homie

>I know

>My butplug
>Show

>>19201662
Haven't you posted this gay thing before?

>>19193793
I only started reading and writing poetry because of music. A lot of folk ballads and are straight-up poetry, complete with meter and rhyme.
If you listen to music, it helps a lot, too. The rhythm of music makes it easier to feel poetry, because you're able to feel different tempos and rhythms.

>>19191674
Lest I have another, wry
ought be the ire, lest I light
another, cold ought be the fire.

Take these gifts from me, if you can
I must walk alone to see what I am
How small am I without a helping hand
Give me no favor
No soldier no savior
Each day an appeal to absurdity
But my feet still carry me
How can this vitality be
With God an absentee?

>>19203071
Make it still my feet, better cadence. Otherwise a nice little hip-fired thought pattern. Save it, see if it is a good seed to grow something longer and more polished.

>>19203261
Thx

>>19191674
A young nigga screaming fuck the world and let 'em die
Behind tints, tryna duck the world and smoking ride
Got my bandanna 'round my head and pants to my feet
And got my eyes fire red and Glock on my seat
I'm tryna stay under intoxication
'Cause I lost my father, and got a daughter, plus I'm on probation

>>19203272
I am guessing you wrote it in a burst?

>>19203419
Yea like 5 mins during morning doobie

Here come the hemorrhoid flow,
cuz I got hemorrhoids, bro.
The hemorrhoids hang low
when the hemorrhoids go.
These hemorrhoids ain't for show,
I got hemorrhoids fo sho'.
Hemorrhoids without M.O.
real-ass hemorrhoids, you know.

a fly flew for my nosehole,
forthrightly it crawled inside,
disgusting!

>>19191674
There once was a lady from China
With a popsicle in her vagina

>>19204549
>absconding viral assays
>via cooter forays
>bat soup sloughed off inside her

>>19191722
How does useless and Brutus rhyme? And Lazarus and Jesus also.
Not bad overall it’s fun

Not gonna lie really wanna kill myself

>>19191674
>not sure on the title. Which one is better?

Title: The L.A deal / The publishers price

Satan's deal
You sign with a pen

Now in the hills
Wondering when

It's time to shine
Will fame be mine

>>19191674
Wordsworth was here.
https://i.4cdn.org/wsg/1633625615341.webm

>>19191674

How strange it is to be alive!
Collected new and old can thrive
Mind and soul inhabit form
Cerebral ape to blinded worm

To shed, and shift, or sublimate
To be alive is meant for you!
To dive deep into love and hate
To express, excrete, expire too

Reaching outward a ginger root
The mighty oak will skyward shoot
But vital force will share a room
Along apposite impending doom

For dynamic man who paints and sculpts
For need of barrel for his drive
He zombifies his liver-pulp
A shallow pool will bar his dive

Now fully sedate and wiring fried
And turning to a second life
Stimulation met with no reply
Automaton electric strife

Ionic pulse has fully shorted
Seeking now to greet the virtue
Through a glass smoked and distorted
This subject wants to start anew

>>19191674
The Demons dance
Far in distance lands
Where evil reigns and darkness smothers
From the shadows of Oblivion, Demons beckon me over

Eyes of pink and blue
They see me move
They watch me run
They’re eager for fun
To push me here
To grab me there
To hold my skin with claws and teeth
To push me down, pathetic and weak

Using my body, they satisfy selfish pleasures
They use me until I can do nothing but shiver
Until I can do nothing but whimper
They use me until they’re done
They use me until they cum.

>>19191674
More Dante. Inferno, Canto 26, lines 14-42. This canto is quite famous because of the passage later where Ulysses tells how he died.

Here's the Italian & translations by Mandelbaum and Longfellow:
https://digitaldante.columbia.edu/dante/divine-comedy/inferno/inferno-26/

>>19207435
Is this OC?
If so, congrats. Best original poem I've seen on /lit/ in years - maybe, ever.

>>19207435
CUUURINGEEE

>>19207649
thank you! i wrote it to include in national novel writing month (might be cheating because it's not november yet)

>>19207435
Great poem, my man. Love seeing language rooted in the metered tradition employed to critique digital mores.

Scourging winds have lashed the cliffside clear of leaves
Raking fury all amongst the screaming trees
Is this how this or every autumn dies
Blanched and trembling underneath a vaulted sky
And who shall bear it witness? Only I.
* * *
Man’s industrious corruption stings the Earth
Envenoming the substance of our birth.
But Justice! If we prove Her mortal wrong,
At least our Mother’s death throes will carry us along.

A rat done bit my sister Nell.
(with Whitey on the moon)
Her face and arms began to swell.
(and Whitey's on the moon)
I can't pay no doctor bill.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
Ten years from now I'll be payin' still.
(while Whitey's on the moon)
The man jus' upped my rent las' night.
('cause Whitey's on the moon)
No hot water, no toilets, no lights.
(but Whitey's on the moon)
I wonder why he's uppi' me?
('cause Whitey's on the moon?)
I was already payin' 'im fifty a week.
(with Whitey on the moon)

>>19191712
Somehow expected
Rambling nonsense in verse
It's so tiresome
>>19191722
>>19193651

>>19191722

I like it. I found the last line lacking in gravitas though.

>>19204945
In pronunciation you can shift less and us to sound the same, not perfectly but can be found in various poems and songs, Lazarus would be Laz-ar-us, so the stress on US there is being used for Jesus, both very slanted I admit. Glad you thought it was fun!

>>19210084
Probably because the last stanza as a whole is pretty sappy honestly.