POETRY CRITIQUE THREAD Pic related

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Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:12:38 2018 No.10760786 [Reply] [Original]

POETRY CRITIQUE THREAD

Pic related

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:19:31 2018 No.10760809

Though bound by burning bells among the wires,
Which cast their mythic strands across the East,
I walk and sing the path inviolate,
And pour my bones into your marbled bridge,
And tune my voice to harmonize with yours,
And pray to graves your eyes had write anew:

O arbiter of dice and voices traced,
Dissolve this light which bars a tantric god
That I may cease to be a fleeting step
Upon this altered arm which merges wrecks;
For I must leap the white ascent you grasped—
The pillared leaves of bone beneath the sea.

Into inchoate waves above the Bridge
This calyx cannot forge its fruitful line—
But fall a virgin relic, broken, cold—
And I, the coward root, retreat to land
To watch the potent palms of gods create
Their gilded arch above your lasting path.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:24:02 2018 No.10760824 It goes up. Further and further. My chest tighter and tighter. The rush. The chemicals. The way of life. The shame. Not as much blood this time. Not as much fun.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:40:59 2018 No.10760870 >>10760786 reads like you smoke weed regularly, but you wrote this one when you were either drunk or hungover, very fedora peterson >>10760809 >O arbiter of dice more tfw no gf fedoratry >>10760824 sodomite meth-slam

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:45:59 2018 No.10760889 >>10760870 >O arbiter of dice And beyond that one line? I was hoping more from you, O Critic of Poetry.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:52:33 2018 No.10760909 >>10760889 the arbiter of dice is being asked to get rid of a barrier so that you can jump over a slanted pillar (all of this is under water btw)

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:55:17 2018 No.10760922 >>10760809 I like it, you give more attention to the resonances between words than most poems I see here.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:57:11 2018 No.10760928 >>10760909 What are you talking about? Of course the pillar is under water. The 12th line states that explicitly. And what use is detailing the action of the work without exploring its meaning and implications?

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:58:14 2018 No.10760931 >>10760824 6/10

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 00:58:27 2018 No.10760932 >>10760922 Thanks, anon.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 01:21:32 2018 No.10761020

Amber
Streets of Gold
Confusion patterns drilling for combat
My teens
My twenties
Children vandalize adults vandalize children
Church choir baptism reduction fire
My face is red and blue only and always
No ache from hunger
No sudden movements
No paranoid thoughts
No pain after pleasure
No background noise
No to aging
No ignorant masses
I was born at First Manassas
No missing the people I wait for
No watching them walk away

It starts: You see mirrors in everyone
Everyone loves you
You can be anything you want when you grow up
Nothing is your fault
The monsters live in places far away

Everything changes: Black air forces its way through your nostrils
You are want to breathe
The harder you try to hold onto things the faster they seem to leave
I can always wretch
Swallow horseflies whole
Kill what's left of yourself
Spend time in caves weeks at a time
Return to the surface to discover you're blind

You reach out: The sun brings me to life sometimes
Hold your own chains
Feel for exit
Find where you were
Wish you could go back
Go back for a while
Flee persecution
Hide in denial
No time travel
No kings worthy of respect
No relationship
No surprise to expect
Destroy your progress to resurrect a clean state of mind

Evergreen: Is it real?
She lives there in a house with me
Christmas presents tucked under the tree
Every pleasant memory
I am complete
I win
No loss
No burden
No waking from dreams
No fear

The rosewater rains from the radiated sky
The clown on his moped passes me by
This world labors on with or without me
Here I yelled: now I sigh

Amber sunset
Dying Margaret
Hold my secrets
They keep me alive
See beauty in rust
Follow no man
I will find her
Pining for the homeland

Evergreen

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 01:28:13 2018 No.10761053 Just Me Myself And I Where Was Am I?

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 01:57:09 2018 No.10761163 >>10760928 restating it is critique enough. your critique mistakes the energy for the essence.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 03:35:29 2018 No.10761426 From ambered chambers springs the miracle Marshalled on by mourning dove And lo, although one's life empirical One won't sacrifice his love.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:09:04 2018 No.10761501

Can someone rate my translation of this poem? It isn't meant to be exact.

1. Il me faut le cacher au plus intime de mes veines
2. L'Ancêtre à la peau d'orage sillonnée d'éclairs et de foudre
3. Mon animal gardien, il me faut le cacher
4. Que je ne rompe le barrage des scandales.
5. Il est mon sang fidèle qui requiert fidélité
6. Protégeant mon orgueil nu contre
7. Moi-même et la superbe des races heureuses

1. I must hide it in my deepest veins,
2. The storm-skinned ancestor, whose flesh is furrowed with lightning
3. I must hide my guardian animal
4. Lest I loose a flood of scandal.
5. He is my blood, faithful and demanding faith,
6. Guarding my naked pride against
7. Myself, and the blessed tribes.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:17:18 2018 No.10761525

>>10761426
Interesting. Do you alternate iambs with trochees across the whole poem?

>>10761020
I like this. It's like lyrics from a '90s song. By far my favorite part is
>The rosewater rains from the radiated sky
(I might have been tempted to say 'radiant sky', anyway that's a beautiful image)
>The clown on his moped passes me by
>This world labors on with or without me
But the 4th line of this stanza disappoints me as being quite weak in comparison with the other three. Maybe say the same thing with weightier words?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:21:49 2018 No.10761533

Surprising a Cat on my Hotel Veranda

On the veranda
I saw a creature sitting
having got up there by cattish means, and found
the cushion of a deck chair to its liking.
I thought, “That’s my wife’s chair.”
But I let it sleep; I let my wife sleep
until she woke (my wife),
and so I said,
“There’s a cat on the veranda.”
But she was blind, without her eyes,
and naked, without her clothes.
“Your clothes are wet,” she said
as we embraced.
“I’m drying them. I mustn’t hang them
on the porch
or else I’d wake the cat.”

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:24:20 2018 No.10761541 >>10761525 >Do you alternate iambs with trochees across the whole poem? That's the idea, still very much a WIP though

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:42:24 2018 No.10761580 >>10760870 I have never touched weed or alcohol, lol. Thanks anyway.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:52:36 2018 No.10761595

"Grandma Rose"

Sometimes, too late,
I will pre-
tend that my Grandma Rose is visiting.

I will take the bottle
downstairs,
run back up
for a sweater,
and an empty cup for tea.
Sitting
at the kitchen table,
the streetlights
make wonderful
sketches out of the houses
on the corner and
their fenced-in pieces
automobiles,
mirrors.
The peel of a mammoth orange
stinks around us,
the heat brings it out.
As I eat around the sick parts
I make it tasteless.

She has so much to say
that I keep nibbling so I won’t
be tempted to interrupt her.
The kettle hums and I refill her tea.
She changes her dress in the space between.
We sit down together and
as I begin to run
over my words she’s gone and
I am also for a short
while
but I come
back to vinegar in my teeth
it's still night.

I put
up the bottle
and pour the tea out.

A mother I’ve never met
who I insult with little stories
and excuses
like this on,
picking over history and beauty
for sinews,
for a line.
The juice runs from my mouth
in the bathroom
I can’t stop talking,
but the language is gone.

In Syracuse,
the snow
is gone to her
below the salt.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:54:04 2018 No.10761599 >>10760786 at first I thought this was one of Baudelaire's poems take that as you will

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:54:57 2018 No.10761604 File: 8 KB, 515x518, Untitled.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] r8 and h8

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 04:58:45 2018 No.10761609 >>10761604 what does "severaled" mean? I like your poem btw

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:03:26 2018 No.10761617

>>10761609
"Made several." But it's not a real word. I could have used divded or something, but it sounds like "severed"/ sounds more unnatural. I could have also just used "several," but I felt like it had to be a verb, something that happened to black.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:03:56 2018 No.10761618

The distant howls of a winter stray,
Man-grown grass interspersed in mud,
Tall trees in staccato of an unknown rhyme,
Life enables in a bourgeois dream.

Wooden benches carpet the forest,
Birds ballad of a foreign verse,
Brooding barks bow in obeisance,
Life enables in a bourgeois dream.

Overmen observe nature's cries,
March merrily in monsoon madness,
Grand streetlights pose as redwood trees,
Life enables in a bourgeois dream.

Cultures meet, identities lost
Wrong places and wrong times
Petals droop, and men scream -
Life enables in a bourgeois dream.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:05:18 2018 No.10761622 >>10761599 Thank you anon :)

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:08:23 2018 No.10761629

>>10761020
"You are want to breathe" - is this intended as written?
"Spend time in caves../...discover you're blind" is a bit cliche. I would drop it.
"Destroy your progress to resurrect a clean state of mind" sounds like a chorus from a circa-2002 metal single. It's a bit on the nose.
On the whole, the poem is, despite its numerous stylistic gestures, a bit too explicit in its emotional content, and comes off as gussied-up angst, wearing a tie for company. It's by no means bad - the first verse is fantastic, reminiscent of "fitter, happier", with "I was born at First Manassas" a standout. I think a little more subtlety would greatly improve the work.

>>10761053
Clever turn of phrase. I like it, but it's pretty shallow.

>>10761533
I like the line division a lot - it's lilting, and makes the events just a bit stranger.
The language is great, not too complex but not too plain for the subject. It seems like a real person telling you a story.
The repetition in
"But she was blind, without her eyes,
and naked, without her clothes"
seems forced. The image of a face without eyes is strong, but being "naked without clothes" seems fairly standard, and even in the context of his contrasting wet attire, it's not terribly compelling.
It's well-put together and playful while displaying a strange situation. I like it a lot.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:10:51 2018 No.10761633

Some general suggestions directed at nobody in particular:

Almost nobody in these threads hits an appropriate tone. People either strain for a high-poetic register that makes them sound antiquated, or else write "unaffected" prose with arbitrary line breaks.

Also, as Nietzsche says, poets lie too much. Don't reach for words/tropes/images that don't come from your actual feelings just because they sound nice.

Last of all, don't capitalize the first word of every line; it's an antiquated convention and makes it look like you think you're Shakespeare.

-t. someone who has done all of these things

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:12:32 2018 No.10761636 Happiness selfish Wealth parsimony Sorrows excuse Truth limiting. >>10761633 Thanks. Can you rate my OP?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:14:27 2018 No.10761640

I'm working on a longer poem, this is what I have so far:

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:21:14 2018 No.10761653

>>10761640
>Pfft another jerk who read Shelley in high school and thinks he can...
>...wtf this is actually a great rendition of heroic meter
I'd have used different language here and there, but the flow is flawless and your enjambments work well.
The 3rd to last line doesn't really work though.

Is there a particular myth you're adapting?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:27:55 2018 No.10761668

>>10760786
I like your poem, but there are several grammatical mistakes, and other word choices I just think are awkward.

Also I think you should remove the final two lines; they're unnecessary. I like the conceit of the atheist fly, and I think that last 4-line stanza is a good end to the poem. The remark about the food chain seems out-of-the-blue and unconnected to everything that comes before. Maybe I've missed your intent.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:31:31 2018 No.10761679

>>10761636
Sure.

As in the above post, I think you have a bit of an arcane register ("'Twas," "Hath"). I'm guessing you're trying to use them humorously(?) but even if so, it's impossible to get away that with in our era.

Having rhymed metrical lines doesn't help this impression. These things can be gotten away with, but maybe not when you're addressing such a light subject. When you make use of these conventions, you're more explicitly calling upon the history of poetry, and it's something you need to justify.

I think you could also improve w/r/t economy of words. I get that you're trying to show repetition, but you don't want to repeat forms of the same word ("buzz") monotonously, unless you have a damned interesting way of doing it. Also, you have some filler-ish lines where nothing happens ("as if it was") and some words I suspect you added just to adhere to your meter ("It fell ON down").

Last of all, try to show things with images rather than making them explicit, e.g. "Its misery infected me" and "as if it was/ in a trance." Heavy reliance on image and low reliance on exposition distinguishes poetry from prose, after all.

I liked your tone tho, it's got a nice cutting irony. You do some cool things with your meter ("with my bare hands" for example).

Cheers m8, keep writing.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:32:36 2018 No.10761681 >>10761653 Yeah, it's going to be about Hyperion. What do you think is wrong with the 3rd to last line?

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:39:09 2018 No.10761698 >>10761681 not the guy who replied to you, but the meter of it doesn't seem to flow with the rest of the poem, specifically the word "divinity", seems off for some reason

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:41:34 2018 No.10761702 >>10761681 Just that the word 'fallen' interrupts the meter. Needs to be one syllable. I refuse to read that as "fall'n"

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 05:47:08 2018 No.10761717

>>10761679
There's nothing wrong with using arcane language or style in modern poetry as long as you're doing it for a purpose. In fact it lends itself particularly well to a light subject; c.f. Burns' 'To a Louse'. Anyway It's a huge stretch to say 'it's impossible to get away with in our era'

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 06:01:08 2018 No.10761748 File: 88 KB, 640x638, asdfff.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] How do I learn how to write poetry? Like the rules and stuff.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 06:04:58 2018 No.10761755 >>10761748 Search for Stephen Fry's 'The Ode Less Traveled'. It's available on b-ok

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 07:00:14 2018 No.10761872 >>10761679 Thanks man, a cautiously optimistic critique by you. Those are the best. Cheers.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 07:06:05 2018 No.10761891 >>10761668 Thanks, I'll work on some of that stuff :)

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:11:12 2018 No.10762197 >>10760786 Bump

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:13:27 2018 No.10762204 >>10761633 >poets lie too much From the corner of my room I pretend, in prose-laden black on blue to green men I thought I knew, I know what I'm doing.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:25:55 2018 No.10762237

>>10762204
Hehe, this is probably my favorite of the thread so far. Simple but attractive, and it very easily rolls off the tongue.

There was one I wrote, I remember vividly the idea coming to me on the road and I was very frantic about trying to remember it because I had neither the resources nor the luxury of writing it down and so many things have been lost in my memory I'm sure my dreams have short work each night. I'm sure I sounded like an inept repeating it to myself alone in the semi-dark but I personally liked the sound of it.

I will not let your life be lost on me
Said my love to the candle bedside
flickering
I will not let your ash grow cold in vain,
turning to me I saw her face and then

illuminated by
the martyr and her fire
she said to me to make
our night commiserate
The burning at the stake.

Now I think I'm far better in prose than in poetry, and, well, I'll admit it's pretty childish. But I like it for its sonorous quality about it. It could probably use some tuning but it's pleasing to me to hear. Maybe that's just the experiences I associate with it, or an inability to recognize my own faults; in both of which I am happily drunk.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:30:45 2018 No.10762246

>>10761633
>poets lie too much
While I like this sentiment, A) who says that a poet has to write in character? Most of the great ones don't, so what's wrong with reaching for devices? and B) look at the kind of diarrhea that passed for poetry during Nietzsche's age.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:31:20 2018 No.10762250 [DELETED]

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I'd fuck her I'd fuck her I'd fuck her
I'd make love to her I'd enter her
I'll ride her I'll hold her
till she stops and tells me to stop, too.
I'd be done a million heartbeats before her.
I'd need no air, I'd need no light to see
I'd feel her soft and wet below me.
I'd find time in my head to find her words of comfort
I'd fuck her I'd fuck her I'd fuck her

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:36:27 2018 No.10762269
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>>10761533
This is good, but I dislike "cattish means" as a way of showing that it's a cat. You could put more description there so we can visualise it (and still come to the right conclusion)

>>10761595
THIS
I like this. I find the Syracruse bit unclear though.

>>10761618
sorry pal but the alliteration just doesn't work

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:42:05 2018 No.10762298

>>10762269
But doesn't the title clarify that? I consider a title to be part of a poem.
What do you think about the clarity as a whole? Is it clear enough that the wife is naked in bed, and the speaker joins her? (the "without her eyes" is deliberately obscure)
Thanks for the feedback.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:45:22 2018 No.10762309

"Dysthymia

Sometimes, I wish I could crawl back into my mother’s womb, and sleep in a state between that fluctuates between nothingness and existence. Life for me was a mistake; I wasn’t ready to be born, yet being alive is the only thing I can feel now. And in the early morning hours of my life, when flaming, red light of the sun burns the escaping darkness in the sky; the elegant songs of the morning birds pierce through the slumbering walls; and the spacious air which pretends to hold everything in its vast arms; are the only jovial hours in my life. Rest is all the same. "

What do you guys think?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:51:26 2018 No.10762324

>>10762298
The title does make it clear, I'm just not a fan of "cattish means". I can see why you wanted to use that phrase, keeping it a creature, but there are other ways. It's hard to actually articulate what I don't like about that phrase, maybe just the ambiguity.
Yeah that part is clear. I imagined the "blind, without her eyes" part was referring to bleariness - was it actually an absurd twist? I think at the minute it registers to the eader but it's not.. processed in any way. There would need to be another cue if you wanted more to be drawn from it, I think.

>>10762309
Prune your commas. And some of it relies too much on cliche. It's not awful though.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:56:16 2018 No.10762337 File: 142 KB, 800x401, br.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10762269

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:56:53 2018 No.10762338 are there any germans here?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:57:16 2018 No.10762340

we are only specks of dust
perhaps trickling from
a sleeping giant’s hand
as it weakly opens
and falling between stars
we get caught by the wind, or we don’t,
we reach the ground, or we don’t
we conquer spines of books
we gather into fluff
we love, we write poems
like this one, or we don‘t

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 09:58:19 2018 No.10762343 >>10762338 Ja, allermindestens ich

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:05:00 2018 No.10762357 File: 2.27 MB, 2448x3264, IMG_20180116_144503.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10762343 >>10762338 Poste was, dann poste ich auch was

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:11:47 2018 No.10762371

>>10761595
An example of a good poem marred by uncertain linebreaks. A line must be made a stand-alone object for a reason.
>I put up the bottle and pour the tea out.
That phrase can only reasonably be broken into two lines, if it needs to be broken at all:
>I put up the bottle
>and pour the tea out.
Unless of course there's a real need to emphasize a small part of it.
When writing in free verse, the conventional poetic structure tempts us to add line breaks where we don't need them. That's bad, but unfortunately there's no easy alternative.
There's a strong, strong argument for meter actually giving the poet more freedom.

I don't mean to sound preachy; I'm just thinking out loud.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:26:37 2018 No.10762430

Als Angeklagter knie ich,
Als Richter hoch im Stuhle sitzend,
Henker bin ich Herz und Seele,
Todesmut schnürt mir die Kehle.

"Wo kein Kläger, da kein Richter!",
Sagt man, denkt man, weit gefehlt -
Prozess wird mir auch so gemacht,
Kurz und knapp, es wird gelacht.

Gesetz geb' ich nach Herzenslaune,
Wie ich es mit Freude breche,
Freiheit ist das leere Wort,
Der Kerker doch der wahre Ort!

Auf Unschuld poch' ich Advokat,
So dann ich das Geständnis mache.
Keine Gnade, ich bin kein Gott,
Nur der, der liegt, nackt am Schafott.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:26:59 2018 No.10762432 Is an apple from an apple tree As big as that booty glazed with white chickens

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:32:12 2018 No.10762448 Why does no one write epic poetry anymore? It's the height of literature.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:33:54 2018 No.10762456

>>10761595
>A mother I’ve never met
who I insult
I think that should be “whom”

Can you say maybe what you were trying to do with this poem? I genuinely really enjoyed it and I love the imagery of the kitchen - you’ve got me curious about what your aim was.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:41:14 2018 No.10762474 >>10762448 There are plenty of contemporary epic poems. You've probably never heard of them because nobody cares to read them.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:57:13 2018 No.10762508

>>10762430
Interessant, kunstvoll, nicht gerade schön, aber lesenswert. Die Idee der Strophenstruktur gefällt mir, besonders in der ersten Strophe. Da reimen sich zwar Vers 1 und 2 nicht, aber sie ähneln sich in ihrem Thema (fast eine Umkehrung, in der Körperhaltung, der Rolle usw. - der knienende Angeklagte, der hoch sitzende Richter). Die Bildsprache passt gut zum Thema, dem Kampf mit einem unsteten Selbst (vermute ich).

>Freiheit ist das leere Wort,
>Der Kerker doch der wahre Ort!

>Keine Gnade, ich bin kein Gott

Diese Verse wirken auf mich schwerfällig, können mit der Eleganz des Rests des Gedichts nicht ganz mithalten.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:58:15 2018 No.10762511

>>10762508
>>10762430

Wie sich Knoten, Bänder alter Sagen
die in Ecken trotzig unter Moos verschwinden,
als würden sie seit Anbeginn der Zeit auf Christus warten,
zu Leere und zu Kreuzen binden!

Wo auf rauen Steinen Pflanzen sprießen
hat man vor langen Zeiten zeitlos ausgeflochten
die Unendlichkeit, um sterbend sie ins Kreuz zu schließen;
zu spüren, was die blinden Mythen nie vermochten.

Unser Wille wird nie mehr gebrochen.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 10:59:18 2018 No.10762515 >>10762430 Lust Kontakt aufzunehmen und ein bisschen mehr auszutauschen? Skype/Discord?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:00:20 2018 No.10762517

>>10762430
Der Anfang ist nett und führt die Thematik schön ein, finde ich
>Todesmut schnürt mir die Kehle.
Das ist gezielt paradox, oder?
Dadurch, dass so viele Haltungen vorkommen, ist es sehr schwierig, die richtige Balance zu finden. Im Großen und Ganzen gelingt es, finde ich, aber irgendwie liest es sich vielleicht noch nicht ganz stimmig.
>Wo kein Kläger, da kein Richter!",
>Sagt man, denkt man, weit gefehlt -
>Prozess wird mir auch so gemacht,
>Kurz und knapp, es wird gelacht.
ist zwar nett, aber hast du dich nicht als Selbstankläger eingeführt?
>Freiheit ist das leere Wort
"Das leere" Wort kommt aus dem Nichts, wieso wird diesem Wort allein so eine Sonderstellung eingeräumt?
>So dann ich das Geständnis mache
Das klingt etwas ungelenk, finde ich. Musst du hier den Jambus retten? Du erlaubst dir doch sonst auch etwas metrische Freiheit.
>Keine Gnade, ich bin kein Gott,
>Nur der, der liegt, nackt am Schafott
>All that’s left, most artists seem to feel these days, is man. Naked, poor, forked radish. There aren’t any celebrations.
Ich verstehe zwar, wie man diese Einstellung vertreten kann, sie muss einem doch eigentlich als die einzige vertretbare Einstellung vorkommen, aber sehnst du dich nicht danach, sie zu überwinden?
Allgemein gefällt es mir ganz gut, aber ich würde nicht zu viel Rücksicht auf meine Meinung nehmen.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:10:52 2018 No.10762565 [DELETED]

>>10760809
this is good. like rally good. I have a question . Is this about the failure to follow an idol's path? It seems overall to be about opposing chaos to obtain divinity and failing. But can't tell if the narrator is attempting to emulate a god or a mortal

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:11:22 2018 No.10762569

Und da waren es schon vier (Deutsche)

-

wir sind nur staubflocken
vielleicht einem riesen im schlaf
aus seinen sich schwach öffnenden händen
gerieselt; zwischen den sternen hindurch
vom wind erfasst, oder nicht;
erreichen den boden, oder nicht.
wir setzen uns auf buchdeckeln fest
finden uns zu flusen zusammen
wir lieben einander, wir schreiben ein Gedicht,
wie dieses, oder nicht.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:20:26 2018 No.10762595

>>10762511
Mir gefallen die Details, z.B. "trotzig" und die "rauen" Steine. Findest du nicht, dass "Unendlichkeit" etwas zu wissenschaftlich klingt, wenn man den mythischen/nach Transzendenz strebenden Ton des Gedichtes bedenkt, oder ist das nur für STEM-Austisten wie mich so?
>zu Leere und zu Kreuzen binden
Kannst du erklären, was du mit "zu Leere binden" meinst?
>zu spüren, was die blinden Mythen nie vermochten.
Den Vers/Ausdruck würde ich stehlen, wenn ich schreiben würde

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:24:47 2018 No.10762606
File: 243 KB, 730x973, khachkar-near-okhty-ekhtsy-monastery12.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>10762595
ich habe nur versucht, das hier zu beschreiben

Kennst du irgendwelche Ressourcen, die beim Dichten helfen, oder beim Dichtenlernen? Irgendwelche Orte, an denen man veröffentlichen kann?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:33:07 2018 No.10762639

>>10762595
Unendlichkeit habe ich benutzt, weil mir diese ornamente auf dem Grabstein so vorkamen, als würde das Wort zu ihnen passen. Vorchristliche Symbolik enthält oft solche Strukturen/Formen (?), die sich selbst wiederholen, sich im Kreis drehen, etc. (wie z.B. die Swastika). Daher kam es mir passend vor.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:42:39 2018 No.10762677 >>10762569 >>10762511 On peut avoir un petit traduction?

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:45:56 2018 No.10762694

>>10762677
impossible, mais je l'essaie (comme un allemand)

>>10762677
>>10762569
perhaps we’re specks of dust
trickling from
a sleeping giant’s hand
as it weakly opens

and then, falling in-between stars
we get caught by the wind, or we don’t,
we reach the ground, or we don’t.

we conquer spines of books
we gather into fluff
we love, we write poems
like this one, or we don‘t

>>10762511
>>10762677
still working on the translation (will be shit)

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:47:08 2018 No.10762702

>>10762606
>>10762639
Wenn man das so sinnlich begreift, wird es verständlich, wenn man allerdings das Bild nicht vor Augen hat und die Verse metaphorisch auffasst, wird es schwierig, zumindest für mich.
Persönlich würde ich es ansprechender finden, wenn du es bei der Beschreibung belassen und die letzte Zeile auslassen würdest. Andererseits könntest du auch versuchen, die Wirkung des Objekts von diesem zu lösen und dies in einer letzten Strophe zu verarbeiten. Den Sprung zum letzten Vers wie er jetzt da steht halte ich nicht für gelungen. Ich würde vielleicht auch versuchen, die Struktur etwas zu präzisieren, z.B. vom heidnischen Muster zum Kreuz hinzuführen. Du musst aber aufpassen, durch die Materie bedingt kann das Gedicht schnell ganz schön bieder wirken. Ich fände es nett zu sehen, wie sich ein grundlegender Mystizismus in den Ornamenten, die ja unterschiedlichen Ursprung haben, wiederfindet. Was das Wort Unendlichkeit betrifft, so finde ich es auch vom Sinn her verlockend, aber irgendwie unhandlich. Das kann aber auch an mir liegen.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:54:47 2018 No.10762732

>>10762569
Mir gefällt der Anfang der Ausführung der Staubflockenmetapher und der Fall vom Kosmos hin zum profan Alltäglichen. Findest du den Anthropomorphismus der letzten Zeilen notwendig? Ich finde, dass er dem Gefühl des Getriebenseins und minimalen Wirkungsvermögens, den die ersten acht Zeilen teilen, etwas entgegensteht und würde etwas staubflockenartigere Staubflocken vorziehen.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 11:59:27 2018 No.10762746

I'm going all out. Will dump a lot of things I translated from my own work

Some faces of love

Love: pollen that the rose of the heart creates;
The wheat of friendship forged in carnal bread;
Virus that inflames the soul in honey; the milk of joy;
A tempest in which the thunders have teeth of satin;

A sun that solves icebergs and warms the chest; a narcotic harp;
Human carbon harmonized in diamond;
Drunkenness of ambrosia and cirrhotic corrosion;
Flesh and blood hosting a god as an inhabitant;

Emptiness in the me, in the us infinity; ocean
That submerges in ocean; fruit and thorn;
The coma of reason; desire made tyrant;

The heavens when in the human clay they make their nest;
The oxygen of spirit; the road of roads;
Tender whispers under sheets on the cold nights.

Algumas faces do amor

Amor: pólen que a rosa do coração cria;
O trigo da amizade em pão carnal forjado;
Vírus que inflama a alma em mel; leite da alegria;
Tormenta em que os trovões tem dente acetinado;

Sol que icebergs solve e aquece o peito; harpa narcótica;
Carbono humano harmonizado em diamante;
Embriaguez de ambrosia e corrosão cirrótica;
Carne e sangue hospedando um deus como habitante;

Vazio no eu, no nós infinito; oceano
Em oceano mergulhado; fruto e espinho;
O coma da razão; o desejar tirano;

O céu quando no barro humano faz seu ninho;
O oxigênio do espírito; via das vias;
Ternos sussurros sob lençóis em noites frias.

Apples, grains, peaches, veils of grassland,
Cedars, pines, the feathers of autumn,
Corals of the sea, mountains, sun, light, the heavens ...
All of these are only yawns, soon they will be sleep.

Even the cosmos, flowered with existences,
A nest of worlds, it's also a birth
Generated to end in drowsiness:
The eclipse of chaos marks its bitter abortion.

Even on the face of the newborn
In sad dances the germs of death waltz:
Every human is already born consumed,

Death already inhabits inside the blood children;
To live is to rot under such contagion,
In the sea of nothing being has its shipwreck.

Original:

Maçãs, grãos, pêssegos, gramados véus,
Cedros, pinheiros, as plumas do outono,
Corais do mar, montanhas, sol, luz, céus...
São só bocejos, logo serão sono.

Mesmo o cosmo, florido de existência,
Ninho de mundos, é também um parto
Gerado pra findar em sonolência:
O eclipse do caos marca o amargo aborto.

Mesmo no rosto do recém-nascido
Bailam germes de morte em tristes danças:
Todo humano já nasce consumido,

Já habita a morte o sangue das crianças;
Viver é apodrecer sob tal contágio,
No mar do nada o ser tem seu naufrágio.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:00:56 2018 No.10762754

>>10762746

The Loneliness of Time (it was supposed to be a sonnet, but I ended up needing space and added 2 more lines)

His loneliness is a sea, the others are only bubbles.
He, who has in his breath a cosmic shroud,
Who blinds eagles and suns, dries souls and leaves,
Castrates mating-heats and volcanoes, silences the wind and the canary,

Gnaws the pans and the pyramids, muzzles the waltz
Of the clock and the galaxy, sour wine and veins,
He, Time, is a tyrant of false wickedness
That, without hate or pleasure, unravel our webs.

He loves creation, from the simple to the complex,
However his biography is a book of extinctions
That will ultimately make the cosmos a mirror without a reflection
Since Death rides upon his pulsations.

But when Death at last devours itself
Alone, surrounded by darkness, Time shall sit down
Without even Death with him to hold his hand:
His is the most sad of all incarnations of solitude.

The original

A Solidão do Tempo

Sua solidão é um mar, as outras são só bolhas.
Ele, que tem no alento um cósmico sudário,
Que cega águias e sóis, resseca almas e folhas,
Castra cios e vulcões, cala vento e canário,

Rói panela e pirâmide, amordaça a valsa
De relógio e galáxia, azeda vinho e veias,
Ele, o Tempo, é um tirano de maldade falsa
Que, sem ódio ou prazer, desmancha nossas teias.

Ele ama a criação, do simples ao complexo,
Porém sua biografia é um livro de extinções
Que enfim fará do cosmo espelho sem reflexo
Já que a Morte cavalga as suas pulsações.

Mas quanto a Morte por fim auto devorar-se
Sozinho, em meio ao breu, o Tempo há de sentar-se
Sem mesmo a morte para segurar-lhe a mão:
É a sua a mais triste encarnação da solidão.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:02:02 2018 No.10762761

>>10762754

Nights that are violated by old winter
Bleed virginal rains, weep ice,
Awaken polluted by his seal:
The glittering saliva of the frost.

The graybeard trembles in the street, fragile like a spark;
Beggars boil soup in the campfires;
Cats abandon the skies for the fireplaces;
The trees that the wind pinches howl:

Here is the world that the cold outside paints,
But it cruel kingdom cannot hurt us.
Our skins kiss each other, they fruit honey:

Sweat is our ink in this bed.
Love would see, if he were a bird,
In our sheets the straw with which to build his nest.

The original:

Noites por velho inverno violadas
Sangram virginais chuvas, choram gelo,
Despertam poluídas por seu selo:
A brilhante saliva das geadas.

Treme o ancião, frágil qual faísca;
Mendigos fervem sopa nas fogueiras;
Gatos trocam os céus pelas lareiras;
Uivam árvores que o vento belisca:

Eis o mundo que o frio lá fora pinta,
Mas não nos fere seu reino cruel.
Beijam-se nossas peles, frutam mel:

Suor é neste leito a nossa tinta.
Veria amor, se fosse passarinho,
Nos nossos lençóis palha pra seu ninho.

Ayrton Senna

Black serpents suffocating his mind
The untamed speedways, hypnotic mermaids
Clamoring for the caresses of the shooting star
Of his car; in his heart the despotic prayers

From the phoenix of conquest that, once hunted,
Disappeared, to be reborn on the horizon, in the distance.
More than lovers, than family and friends, he loved
The craving of going beyond. Like God to the monk

This centaur with metal bowels
Had as his goal the highest peak of the mountain.
There are those who think they are great and open champagne
By climbing hills, he sought the fatal heavens:

He merged to the summit, made himself one with the victory
In an alchemy of steel, asphalt, blood, and glory.

The original

Ayrton Senna

Negras serpentes sufocando sua mente
As pistas não domadas, sereias hipnóticas
Clamando por carícias da estrela cadente
De seu carro; em seu peito as orações despóticas

Da fênix da conquista que, uma vez caçada,
Sumia, renascendo no horizonte, ao longe.
Mais que amantes, senpaiília e amigos, foi amada
Por ele a ânsia de ir além. Qual Deus ao monge

Esse centauro com entranhas de metal
Tinha por meta o pico mais alto da montanha.
Há aqueles que se creem grandes e abrem champanha
Por subir morros, ele quis o céu fatal:

Fundiu-se ao cume, fez-se um só com a vitória
Numa alquimia de aço, asfalto, sangue e glória.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:02:07 2018 No.10762763

>>10762702
Deine Einwände machen schon Sinn. Besonders die Lücke zwischen dem Gedicht in Textform und dem dazugehörigen Bild.Mit so einer Erklärung weitergehen zu müssen, ist schon ein schlechtes Zeichen (was das Gedicht angeht, nicht den Leser), aber die kleine Deklaration am Ende war ein Versuch, der Dinglyrik etwas näherzukommen und das Objekt für sich sprechen zu lassen.
Der Grabstein ist ein armenischer, der irgendwo vergessen im Wald steht. Das, in Verbindung mit dem kleinen Reiterbild am unteren Ende und dem Gedanken an Armenien als erstes antikes, christliches Königreich, umgeben von älteren, heidnischen, vermittelt mir (irgendwie) eine Art mittlerweile tragisch gescheiterten Widerstand, frühere Stärke, die jetzt vergessen ist, genauso wie der Grabstein selbst. Soweit die Idee. Ob sich das auch im Gedicht zeigt, ist eine andere Frage, scheinbar ist es nicht so.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:04:12 2018 No.10762769

>>10762761

A dictator realizes that his life is just the act of killing and torturing his way forward, that everything he does now is simply crawling through a swamp of blood and violence and that living has no more flavor, but it's just an endless web anxiety and boredom. The original is in Portuguese.

My delights are now all dead.
My grape-bunch of tomorrows, my suns yet
Unborn, they are already all abortions
Of boredom, anxiety and violence,
An eternity of slaughtering and mold
In the bloody womb of the future:
My horizon hibernates in rotten wine.
From wreck to wrack I drag my creeping spirit,
I force my moldy carcass to chew
Every minute and to ignore the heartburn of existence.
I wander in an anemic desert
And endless procession of rachitic suns.
Time coagulates in a dimmish
Wandering of corpses: my apathetic days,
For dead days do hatch dead days,
And dead days do hatch dead days,
In an endless march in which fresh tortures,
Still hot and sweating blood and pus
(The warm dew that raw flesh cries)
Walk upon the fossils of ancient agonies
Of the past, ancestor pains, and this big and rotten open
Pustule that is my kingdom never silences
Its bloody canticle, that will continue to flow
And gush, echoing horrors, until the breaking of the misterious
Hourglass that we know by the name of time.
My life is also my prison; breathing is an incarceration of the mind;
To get up from the bed is a torture:
The gummy and blear light of dawn invades me
With nausea, to the point that I want
The night to crown herself eternal crown and that the sun,
With his smile, no longer erode the darkness,
But that the blanket of the dark drown all humanity
And that all bud-button of life
Would be suffocated in silence. Life, what is life?
Life is a brief dream and dirty shadow,
A nightmare that creates flesh and, for
A grain of dust and ephemeral spark
Of time, shrieks, howls and contorts
In the polluted stage of existence
Until a single blow do solve it in smoke:
The breath of dying do melt the flame
And all that remains, sited on top of the candle-wick, is an eclipse.
Life is a disease that stings
The coarse scarecrow of inanimate
Matter and makes its aware of itself, makes it notice
The very absurdity and meaninglessness of its own existence;
It is a lightning roaring the fleeting
Rumble and chaos of its voice and then dives
Again in the eternal swamp of darkness
And infinite silence of emptiness;
It's a frantic spark and confused torch,
A chimpanzee modeled in fatuous fire,
Stranded and lost in a dark jungle, that reabsorbs him again
Even before the poor beast invents
Any form of sense to the sudden flash
Of being, his existence: the soap-bubble
Caravel that, without any destination or port,
Navigates through a sea off savourless mists;
A ship of nothing, that nothing has conceived
And that, after floating for a few seconds, will drown in nothingness.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:05:42 2018 No.10762780

These are from the same play as:

>>10762769

FIRST GENERAL: I have here with me letters that are still wet,
Letters from spies that I have sent to the coastal
Cities that report seaquakes and maritime pandemonium,
Gigantic waves and earth tremors.
They say that the salty fertility
Of the sea has frown into a broth of hate, heartburn
And convulsions, that the mating of the waters and the wind
Have shouted a brood of titanic
Leviathans, riding mountains
Whose crests of foam bite the clouds,
As if they desired to disembowel them
To gain access to the orchard of candles of the stars
And drain them as if they were gleaming candies,
Sucking the honey and the silver sugar
Of light, silencing the fire and condemning
The whole world to eternal night. Against the coast
The typhoons have spurred their green steeds,
Colossal hippocampi roaring tsunamis.
The letters say that the elderly that in fisher
Villages and harbor cities
Have live for their entire lives have never seen
The sea throw himself with such bestial fury
Against the seashore, against the rocks, cliffs and beaches;
That never so many seaweeds, so much foam,
So much rheum and bile of the abysses
The waters have vomited thorough the coast.
It is as if the ocean desired
To devour all Japan, disintegrating
With salty saliva and foaming
Mastication the rocky vertebras
Of the archipelago where the sun has his nest.

SECOND GENERAL: I have heard similar news: panic
Spreads across many areas of the nation.
Nature and chaos have copulated:
Thus it is croaked across the villages
By old man, homeless, lunatics and prophets
(Those people that, in the art of injecting wisdom,
Contorted logic and illuminated insanity
With wild words that bite us
Are usually brothers). Some fanatics
Say that Japan, rotten and corrupted,
Like a giant corpse, will wreck
In the ocean, and our beloved earth
Will not see the crystalline cheeks,
The violet face and the smiling
Gaze of the serene skies ever again.
Temples, castles, towers and palaces,
The marmoreal beehive and the stony gardens
Of civilization will all dissolve
In slime, the heavenly vault and the winds –
A farrow of acrobatic foxes
Of breeze – in perpetual solitude, silence
And night will freeze,
And all of our clans, the empire, the sun
Will, in the desert country of the shells,
Anchor in collapse and oblivion.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:07:32 2018 No.10762791

This is also from the same play as:

>>10762769
>>10762780

posting a speech from one of the characters of a play I am writing. On this speech a man is talking to a princess and trying to make her feel better about herself, ensuring that she is extremely beautiful and that only the illness and agony of her husband are the reasons that make her feel bad and that break her self-esteem. He makes an extend comparison between the magnificent creature that is the snow leopard, pointing out how different the animal is when free, on the wild, from when in captivity.

The original passage is in Portuguese and it is written in blank verse, with 10 poetic syllables per line. Hope you guys like it.

I just wanted to tell you that the thing
That discolor, fades and dilutes your beauty -
Maybe not even in the eyes of the world, but only
In your own mind - is sadness.
There is an animal whose beauty
It as legendary as he is elusive:
The snow leopard of Nepal.
He is a palpable specter with moonlight colored
Pelage, a ghost knitted
With wool of snow and fog. It is the flesh
Diamond of the mountains; the heart
And organic entity of the glaciers;
The elusive faun of the aerial gardens
Of the Himalayas; lord of inaccessible
Rocky vegetable-gardens and pale orchards;
King of the white grasslands; indomitable feline.
Hypnotized by such majesty
The stars did cuddle and caress the cat
And on his fur the galaxies stamped
The cold digital of the unreachable
Fires that look to us from the abysses.
Winds pollinated by the dust
Of Ice tempered and seasoned his lungs
With crystal spores; the alpine breath
Bit his blood and inoculated blizzards
In the silver of his powerful muscles.
That is the glory described by those
Who saw the animal in the wild,
That in his own habitat and niche have peeped and observed him.

(...) continue in next post

1/2

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:08:34 2018 No.10762801

>>10762791

2/2

When I was a child I also saw him,
But he was imprisoned and collared:
Some rascal dragged him from town
To town, exposing him for coins.
A sad an crestfallen pussycat: that is what I saw:
Thin, bald, dirty, with his ribs
On display, an inn and tavern for fleas,
An isle of flies, a wreck - the shadow
Of the carnivorous sapphire that reigns
Upon the peaks of the Himalayas. The captivity
Has corroded him in a scabby and mangy ruin,
But such fragment, could he be returned
To the mountains, would flourish
Again in baron and lord of the eternal winter.
You do not recognize the miraculous
Beauty that you possess, princess, because
You are also imprisoned, and the prison that crushes you
It is the darkest and deepest in the whole world:
Depression, the supreme dungeon,
The sepulcher of sepulchers. Even having
The entire planet as a privative garden
In our own skull we have the cage
If we are depressed: we carry
Everywhere our grids
And the currents wrapped around our veins.
The sadness and the suffering for your sick
Husband are the ropes and muzzles
That silence part of you,
But even so you are capable of tearing up the mist
That wants to choke your beauty,
For there is no cloud that suffocates the sun
Or fog that can completely lock
The ocean of light that the star sings,
The eternal glittering of his chirps.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:09:49 2018 No.10762811

>>10762801

This is from teh first play I wrote (the philosophy is not mine, but of the character)

Also, remember that the original is in Portuguese

BABALOUK: I was sincere: I do not know exactly what is love, but although I do not know him, I must say that it seems a primordial error of our philosophers to recognize only the soul as its mother; only the spirit as his father, denying to the body and any slice and piece of his paternity, as if he was at best a distant uncle, shy and sterile. It’s our body just a mountain range of muscles, with occasional showers of sweat, with a loud echo cave called stomach, swamps of tubular fungi called intestines and burning boilers in the private parts below? Is the brain a simple spongy cloud of tempests, the skin a blanket of grass, the heart a nucleus of bubbling lava? Is our body a mere mountain of meat in which lies hidden the immaculate and bright jewel of the soul? After all, what is the soul? Does she have smell? No. Does she have taste? No. Maybe she has texture? Why, in the same way that the fog has texture. What about the voice: is thought the voice of the soul? Is she a kind of small crystal gnat trapped in the colossus of mud and dust of our gross human body, within which it lies, whispering its will? Unlikely. So, gentlemen, why this ghost, this specter, gets all the credit for all that is beautiful in us humans, whereas our bodies, that are always with us (yes , our bodies abandon us only once) are called servants of addiction, unclean dolls, meat cooked in dirt, pigs smeared with sin? Must the glory of nature be called a marionette of muddy rags, an incarnated sewage? That would be an injustice: if we celebrate the cold mosque of the soul, why not also celebrate the carnival of bodily heat? When something is good for us, and we wish this something to be seen with the paints of superiority, we say we love it, but never use the name of pleasure, being this name something crude, something bodily, something dirty. And yet, it’s not love the child of pleasure? When, still newborns, we suck the motherly breast, do we not do so because it’s good, because it’s pleasurable? And, on the deathbed, when we cover our dying bodies - that feel cold - with blankets, do we not so because warmth is good and pleasurable? Why we live with the people we love? Why, because it’s good. Pleasure, gentlemen, is the one who pulls us through our nose with his sugary finger through the road of life. But how do we feel that something is pleasurable? Well, thorough this walking radar: our body. Sensitive as the viscous antennas of the snail is our skin. How then can we know that we really love something? Why, by reading the language of our bodies. So, gentlemen, long life to our bodies, because we can only love while still having them.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:11:38 2018 No.10762820

From the same play as this

>>10762801

>Lullaby of Rust, the Owl

Ho, ho, ho! Do not fear, ho!
Do not fear, little baby, ho!
I will keep your sweet dreams safe,
Ho, Ho! I will be your little angel.

I am Rust, the owl,
The guardian of the forest,
Since I have my nest in the night
No monsters dare to party.

See these carnivorous fairies,
My eyes, my sparkling beasts:
Evil ghosts do greatly fear
Those two golden panthers.

Ho, ho, ho! Do not fear, ho!
Do not fear, little baby, ho!

Dragon with saliva of lava;
Atrocious wolf, the gray death;
Black orchids, bats;
Grouchy bear and wild boar;

Nine-tailed fox;
Rats; elfish monkeys;
Slugs; toads; salamanders;
Frogs that sweat toxins;

Snakes with ruin for teeth;
Hairy tarantulas:
Do not fear them, baby, sleep,
Sleep the sweet sleep of the Buddhas.

I will keep your sweet dreams safe,
Ho, Ho! I will be your little angel.

I am king when after the sun drowns,
I am lord of the animals,
I watch over the black forests,
So do not cry anymore.

Ho, ho, ho! Do not fear, ho!
Do not fear, little baby, ho!
I will keep your sweet dreams safe,
Ho, Ho! I will be your little angel.

>Canção de ninar de Ferrugem, a Coruja

Ru, ru, ru! Não tema, ru!
Não tema, bebezinho, ru!
Eu vou guardar seu soninho,
Ru, Ru! Serei seu anjinho.

Sou Ferrugem, a coruja,
O guardião da floresta,
Por ter na noite o meu ninho
Os monstros não fazem festa.

Veja estas fadas carnívoras,
Meus olhos, faiscantes feras:
Fantasmas malvados temem
Essas douradas panteras.

Ru, ru, ru! Não tema, ru!
Não tema, bebezinho, ru!

Dragão com baba de lava;
Lobo atroz, a morte cinza;
Orquídeas negras, morcegos;
Urso e javali ranzinza;

Raposa de nove caudas;
Ratos; Macacos traquinas;
Lesmas; sapos; salamandras;
Rãs suadas com toxinas;

Cobras com ruína por dentes;
Tarântulas cabeludas:
Não os tema, bebê, durma,
Durma o doce sono dos Budas.

Eu vou guardar seu soninho,
Ru, Ru! Serei seu anjinho.

Sou rei quando o sol se afoga,
Sou senhor dos animais,
Eu vigio os bosques negros,
Sendo assim, não chore mais.

Ru, ru, ru! Não tema, ru!
Não tema, bebezinho, ru!
Eu vou guardar seu soninho,
Ru, Ru! Serei seu anjinho.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:13:42 2018 No.10762829

>>10762694
Perhaps we are a
Puddle of trite imagery
Trying and failing to
Provoke a displacement

And then disintegrating
Into a nothing of temporal
Existential cliche

Followed by a choppy
Series of definite abstractions
Pretending desperately to
A profundity, maybe we break the
Fourth wall, or we don’t

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:14:17 2018 No.10762832

>>10762511
best i could do

How knots and ribbons from old tales -
bolting, out of spite, for mossy corners -
as if awaiting christ on times coattails,
braid themselves into a cross, or into voidfilled borders.

Where plants still grow on gnarled rock,
ages ago was timelessly unplaited,
infinity, to seal it in the cross; our lock,
to feel what blind myths left unsated.

Never will our wills be broken.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:14:26 2018 No.10762833

>>10762820

from teh same play

KUMORI: You don’t know anything about me:
Your own nightmares are unable to
Dream with nights as terrible as
The acts that these hands of mine have consecrated.
I have seen death, glutted and full, with the stomach
And the intestines pulsating with victims
- Souls are roundworms whose howls
Pullulate and itch in the bowels
Of the reaper - yes, I have seen death itself
Begging me to stop forcing her
To eat, but in vain, for I have disemboweled the thorax
Of genocide itself and plunge,
In the trough of his purple organs,
The muzzle of death (already nauseated)
For the black sow to choke
In the wash of hot and oily blood.

(...)

YOKO: I am confused
To think about him: he is my father, and I was supposed to
Love him, or to feel sorry for his crimes,
But his image, when it erupts
In my mind only smears and tar it
With the reek of anger and fear, and nothing else.
Rape is one of the masterpieces of violence,
It is what we have learned to expect
Of monsters, but when your own father
Is the one who commits the crime, and at an age
In which he is still your hero,
Your protector ... It is as if your God,
Who you believe have created it you with infinite
Affection now returns only
To harvest your organs, as warm fruits,
To eviscerates you while still alive,
And you, in your blindness, have confused cultivation
With love: that is a wild disappointment,
Visceral frustration! It's almost like
Seeing God crack the heavens, tear up the clouds
To get access to you, your daughter,
But not to embrace you, to comfort you,
But to puncture you with the thorn of a lightning
For several hours, laughing at the torture,
Just like the cruelest boy
Of the village when he finds a poor frog and proceeds
To poke the animal with a toothpick or a splinter.
The angel have soured in a faun.
I use to ruminate, looking at my father:
"I thought that inside of you
There was so much love, so much joy,
So much beauty ... Fool! I was so stupid!
I should have known you were empty,
Or rather, that you were nothing but a dark and fetid cave,
And your soul a fat salamander,
Without awareness, compassion, affection
And attachment, but only blind hunger "

(...)

KUMORI: I must be like the old-aged lion,
The hoary and grey-haired king that does not wear the silver
Of age like a pajama for sleep,
But as an armor for battle,
And fights with greater fury against the younger cats,
In whom it is still burning the healthy color
Of sun, desert and wheat, the color of flesh
That seems to be modeled with amber and honey.
However, I must roar sovereignty
And ancestral majesty upon the young ones
And make lusty spring fear cold winter,
Punishing the ones who hurt me with hell.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:17:38 2018 No.10762851

>>10762829
Woah, this sudden hostility took me by surprise. Are you making fun of my poem??

How could you?

so, according to you it's
>trite
>failing to provoke a displacement
>a "nothing of temporal existential cliche"

>pretending desperately to a profundity [sic]

I hear you, I don't think it's very good either. But then again, you could attack almost any modern poem in this way.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:19:35 2018 No.10762859

>>10762763
Wenn man sich der historischen Perspektive nicht bewusst ist, kann es schnell missverständlich werden, wenn die "Bänder alter Sagen" mit christlichem Gedankengut verbunden werden. So wie es jetzt da steht, scheint mir der Keim, der in den "blinden Mythen" vorhanden war erst im Kreuz seine Vollendung gefunden hat. Ich bin geschichtlich in dieser Hinsicht nicht allzusehr bewandert, deswegen musst du mir kurz helfen. Der Gedanke des Widerstands scheint mir nicht ganz klar formuliert zu sein. Wenn du von Widerstand sprichst, meinst du damit Widerstand des christlichen Königreiches Armenien gegen seine heidnischen Nachbarn oder schlicht den eh zum Scheitern verurteilten Widerstand gegen die Zeit? Letzteren spürt man schon im Trotz gegen das Moos und dem verwitterten Stein und die kleinen Adjektive fand ich auch ganz hübsch. In dieser Hinsicht wird auch die Beschäftigung mit der Unendlichkeit im heidnischen Muster sowie im Kreuz klar. Wenn du den Gedanken etwas klarer erfassen kannst, hast du sicher die Wortgewandtheit ihn annehmbar auszudrücken.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:24:00 2018 No.10762876

>>10762859
Ob die historische Perspektive passt, weiß ich selbst nicht wirklich, das lasse ich im Dienst der Poesie lieber offen, denke ich. Beide Arten von Widerstand bieten sich an. Danke für das kleine Kompliment, aber wenn ich was nicht habe, dann ist es Wortgewandheit. Alles, was ich im Deutschen sage, fühtl sich versperrt und gezwungen an. Schon diesen Text zu schreiben ist im Vergleich zum posten auf Englisch grauenvoll.

Hast du Gedichte, die du teilen willst? Schaue sie mir gerne an.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:28:35 2018 No.10762897

>>10762876
Danke für das Angebot, aber ich schreibe nicht.
>Alles, was ich im Deutschen sage, fühtl sich versperrt und gezwungen an.
Das geht mir in jeder Sprache so. Ich habe als ich sechzehn war mal versucht ein Gedicht zu schreiben und habe nach einer Stunde und drei halbherzigen Versen aufgegeben. Zu viele Parameter, ich finde nie das mot juste.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:30:35 2018 No.10762902 >>10762897 Seltsam, dein Ausdruck gefällt mir und scheinbar liest du nicht zum ersten Mal ein Gedicht. Gibt es keine Dichter, die du wenigstens spielerisch mal nachahmen willst? Was ist mit Prosa?

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:31:49 2018 No.10762905 >>10762832 eh It's hard to really follow what's happening here, but maybe that's lost in translation. I like >infinity, to seal it in the cross; our lock, >to feel what blind myths left unsated. a lot

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 12:37:18 2018 No.10762931

>>10762902
Ich habe nicht die nötige Energie zum Schreiben. Das Tappen im Dunkeln bedeutet Leiden und das kann ich nicht ertragen. Und schließlich weiß ich, dass ich nie die Intensität, die mir vorschwebt, erfassen könnte. "Wenn man Frans Hals sieht, bekommt man Lust zu malen. Wenn man Rembrandt sieht, möchte man aufhören." So geht es mir mit einigen Schriftstellern. Ich kann mir nur vorstellen, dass man schreibt, weil man nicht anders kann, und für mich ist dieser Zwang nicht vorhanden.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 13:01:29 2018 No.10763040 >>10762931 Das ist verständlich

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 13:15:22 2018 No.10763090 >>10762829 >>10762832 hit me

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 13:43:29 2018 No.10763225 File: 16 KB, 450x325, c671eb04d39867ee5e9e17f7fac74384.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>10762829 I disagree with you about the original poem, but 4chan needs more of this kind of highbrow shitposting

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 14:59:01 2018 No.10763491

>>10762456
Yo, sorry, it's class registration day at my uni so was off for a while.
I grew up with the understanding that my Grandma K was, well, my maternal grandma, but I found out in high school that my mother's mother died when my mom was in college - Grandma Rose. My mother effectively refuses to talk about her, although I will admit I haven't prodded her too much on it. One night, I got drunk and pretended to talk to her, and wrote this poem the next morning, reflecting on it.
I'm attempting to show the ways in which people can center their understandings of things on themselves and their own lives, rather than shifting their perspective to better meet another's concerns and environment. I "dressed up" Rose so she could talk to me, not the other way around, which is distressing.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 15:10:53 2018 No.10763550

When you move it, and you groove it
And you grind it, please rewind it

The way that body lookin', got the hustle on pause
Tryna' get you on my team, and outta them drawls
Let me my word game, tryna' get you out the thong and into the rain
It's strange, the way you make me feel
Is it your personality or sex appeal
I don't know, but you got my attention
And it's a few things I got to mention
This girl got the face of an angel
It's like you're looking at a queen from every angle
A butt like that is hard to find
The dimple in her chin is bigger than mine
The backside, looks so damn clean
With the prettiest legs a nigga ever seen
Smooth-ass skin, with the six pack
Perfect all around, you'll fall in love with that

Aw baby when you move it, and you groove it
And you grind it, please rewind it

Damn baby girl, body off the chain
You a work of art, that's stuck in my brain
I'm like "Man, this girl is fine
I better put her down as a girl of mine"
I'm inclined, to throw up my weight
The fact that I'm winnin' in this would chase
But she ain't even trippin' on the cash I'm pullin'
This girl don't have no ulterior motives
She just ballin' for me 'cause I'm grindin'
Though she probably do like the way these diamonds shinin'
Rainbow colors, blue green yellow red
Flashin' through her mind and goin' through her head
It's something 'bout the way she looks in my eyes
She ain't 'fraid to stare, and with me that's alright
Never had a boyfriend, just turned nineteen
She want me to be the one that turned her on to the scene

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 15:14:20 2018 No.10763567 >>10763550 FUCK yeah Viper advancing the art every way, every day

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 15:31:34 2018 No.10763651 >>10760786 This is all I havw, originally meant to be a hook. Fool to keep fire from it's turn It only comes back hotter If takes a spark then let it burn I'm that volunteer fire starter

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 15:40:17 2018 No.10763681 >>10760786 >Twas

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 15:41:53 2018 No.10763686 Just a small town girl Living in a lonely world She took the midnight train going anywhere Just a city boy Born and raised in South Detroit He took the midnight train going anywhere

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 15:56:35 2018 No.10763729

Well I'm colliding with the mind of a
Survivor surviving, uncover the time brother
The high volume wide column, Height slalom
Preferred jog on the side
Dodgin' mirages, conquer the vibe, hunger lurks.

He only here to warn us what the plan is
The hour is upon us, it's bananas
Born alone, die alone, no matter who your man is

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 16:13:43 2018 No.10763800 I'm a punk rock, rockin yeah Punky me, punky you Let's go start a rave Cos I'm a punk rock, rockin Punk rock, rockin, you

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 16:25:18 2018 No.10763848

>>10763686
7/10. I do think that you should use meter next time. 4th line sounds clumky, but third one paints a pretty nihilistic view. I can imagine the risks "she" is taking.

>>10763729
9/10. Free verse is difficult, but you, sir, pretty much mastered it. The almost prothetic tone of the last image, the african rhythms like a Coltrane metaphysical piece of the third line makes a remarkable piece. One of the best in this thread, keep writing.

>>10763800
7/10.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 16:27:38 2018 No.10763855 >>10761580 >A poet who doesnt drink Llol

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:09:41 2018 No.10764051

>>10763855
>Dreams and drunkenness, the use of opium and alcohol are the semblance and counterfeit of this oracular genius, and hence their dangerous attraction for men. For the like reason, they ask the aid of wild passions, as in gaming and war, to ape in some manner these flames and generosities of the heart.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:14:03 2018 No.10764076 >>10764051 Whats your point All of the best poets were drunks

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:18:00 2018 No.10764091 >>10764076 nah

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:20:33 2018 No.10764100 What the fuck does someone who sits at home wanking to cartoons have to say about anything, and why the fuck would anyone listen? >>10764091 Yes, quite obviously

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:36:40 2018 No.10764170 File: 3.63 MB, 3006x5344, IMG_20180226_152802349.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:38:57 2018 No.10764176 >>10764076 Liquor and poetry serve the same purpose to most great poets, it just means they had a tough life. Alcohol didn't make them better at poetry

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 17:40:15 2018 No.10764179 >>10764176 It probably did make them better in some way But that wasn't what I saying anyway

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 18:15:50 2018 No.10764309

The young buck is skipping merrily through the forest,
The first time away from his parents, his antlers are growing.
Happy at first enjoying his freedom, he begins to feel lonely.
Just then, he runs into a clearing covered in curtains of light,
And in the midst, a beautiful doe stands right towards him.
She waits long enough to steal his heart, then darts away,
But slowly enough that he can follow her into the forest.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 18:17:31 2018 No.10764320

You’re walking alone through the streetlit city,
The rain is falling on you, drenching your clothes.
Your mind is so troubled, you’ve forgot where you’re going.
You look up to see the moon, but see only clouds.
Head down, walking fast, you walk right into me.
Not daring to look up, you mumble your apology.
Seeing your confused expression, I take hold of your wrist,
Press your head into my chest, and hold you there.
You look up into my eyes, they strike you like a lightning bolt.
Let me take you home.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 18:19:05 2018 No.10764327

The day’s been a long one —
Tiredness weighs on her beautiful eyelids.
Softly, her worries recede into dim memory’s tide,
As she lays her gentle cheek on her grateful pillow.
She relaxes her body, lets her spirit roam free,
A little flame burning in her slowly beating heart.
She smiles sweetly, as her mind drifts on to the land of dreams:
Where I stand waiting for her with my arms wide open.
So she sleeps, her hair all still and her hands wide open.
The stars are twinkling a million miles above,
The woman that I love.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 18:22:12 2018 No.10764348

The scar on my head, the scars on your arm,
Makes me think perhaps we’ve met too late.
Should we have met when we were younger,
Before any sadness crept into our eyes?
Could your hand have consoled my lonely heart?
Could my voice have stopped you cutting yourself?
I’m sorry if you needed someone and I wasn’t there.
I want to hold you to make up for the times I haven’t,
I want you to kiss me for all the times you didn’t.
Oh Mischa, what if you were always there in my heart,
And I was lonely only because I was waiting for you?
Oh Mischa, what if I was always there in your heart,
And you were bleeding only because I wasn’t with you?
Oh Mischa, do you still believe love makes all things new?
We could redeem each other’s past and be born again,
Born through the blood and tears we shed before we met.
Today, the air seems fresh and the trees are fragrant,
The sun is shining as it did when we were children.
I want to walk hand in hand with you,
In the dawn of this new world.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 18:31:18 2018 No.10764394

The dim blue sky is fading to black,
The birds have all fled to their nests,
They fall asleep, cuddling each other,
— O Mischa.
The stars keep each other’s company,
And the moon with them like a mother,
But I walk the deserted streets alone,
— O Mischa.
I extinguish all the lights around me,
Let the light within me shine brighter,
One more night with the thought of you,
— O Mischa.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 18:46:41 2018 No.10764482

>>10764309
What makes this a poem and not just a paragraph with line breaks? I think this is really nice, but I think it would be better as prose.

>>10764320
This would make great lyrics for a song, but as poetry standing alone its kind of flat. Very interesting and it has a nice flow, but like I said to another anon, there isn't much distinguishing this from regular prose. It's not bad though. In fact, the more I read it the more I like it, but I don't think it's quite a poem.

>>10764327
There are two main issues I see with this poem. The first is how many cliches you incorporate, (unintentionally I'm guessing)
>Land of dreams
>roam free
>Arms wide open
>Twinkling stars
>Flame burning
>Love and Above rhyme
The bit about flame is redundant, the presence of a flame implies that it's burning
The second issue is your word choice. You use too many adjectives and all in the same exact pattern, and it doesn't seem like an artistic choice.
>Beautiful eyes
>Softly recede
>dim memory's
>gentle cheek
>Grateful pillow
>slowly beating
Not every noun needs an adjective, and not every verb needs and adverb, in fact you should use them very sparingly, they tire out really quickly. As far as the sentiment, I really enjoy it, but you need to trim the fat.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 19:24:03 2018 No.10764642

Look at your eyes,
Look at your eyes,
Look at my hands,
Look at your eyes,
Look at my coffee,
Look at your eyes,
Look at the mirror,
Look at your eyes,
Look at my wallet,
Look at your eyes,
Look at the street,
Look at your eyes,
Look at the birds,
Look at your eyes,
Look at the clouds,
Look at your eyes,
Look at God,
Look at your eyes,
Close my eyes,
Look at your eyes,
When will you open your eyes?
>>10764482
> The first is how many cliches you incorporate, (unintentionally I'm guessing)

No, I embrace cliches are look down on those afraid of cliches as destined to be mediocre forever.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 19:26:27 2018 No.10764651 Also, the heavy use of adjectives and adverbs is to give the language a certain luxuriousness which reflects the speaker's great affection for "The woman that I love".

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 19:38:50 2018 No.10764695 >>10764651 Well if you really feel like your decisions are justified, then great, I hope you're not the only one

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 19:49:27 2018 No.10764730

A Mirror for the Twentieth Century

A coffin that wears the face of a child,
a book
written inside the guts of a crow,
a beast trudging forward, holding a flower,
a stone
breathing inside the lungs of a madman.
This is it.
This is the twentieth century.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 20:36:21 2018 No.10764939 >>10762246 Nietzsche doesn't mean you can't lie. You just can't "lie too much" i.e. include images that are poetic rather than related to lived feelings

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 20:37:59 2018 No.10764947 >>10761618 I don't like your refrain desu. Banish all thoughts of politics or social criticism from your mind.

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 20:46:47 2018 No.10764994

I saw my God hanged on a tree,
by God!, then they tried to hang me—
Tried to make it so as to seem
that my soul and life were but dream
that none could redeem and would fade
like morning dew from grass’s blade.
But I convinced them with a grin
that I, like them, was fond of sin—
I fondled the gods in each girl
who seemed less absent than that pearl
of great price I once heard resides
in hearts cleansed of all sins and prides.
It ain’t that I’m a pagan man
but I’ve tried prayin’ an’ goddamn
if nothing ever came of it.
So now I’ll let those young sluts sit
on what we once worshiped before
that damn Christ made life such a chore

Anonymous Mon Feb 26 23:00:58 2018 No.10765622

I stood in the air like a projection
Or a man
Entering a hovercraft
And stopping midway.

The green light in my heart
Reaches each corner
Of the city.

My love forms
A dome around the city
And shoots lightning from the ceiling.

The people are struck.
Their souls
Leap from their bodies
Like fish on a lure.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 23:01:41 2018 No.10765626 >>10764947 Thanks, I'm not a fan of it as well. I'll have to work on this one.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 23:03:00 2018 No.10765633 >>10765622 Not bad. You can be a bit more expressive for an image like this, though.

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 23:17:09 2018 No.10765712 >>10762269 anyone got anything but "faggot"?

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 23:22:36 2018 No.10765746 >>10765633 Thank you

>>	Anonymous Mon Feb 26 23:31:13 2018 No.10765781 man, I hate commas.

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 00:43:13 2018 No.10766043 Where do I buy a poetry notebook? Not that’s I’m above loose leaf binders per se, but I would like something quality, with a classic feel to keep my musings in.

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 00:46:03 2018 No.10766050 >>10766043 There's another aesthetic to writing poetry on the last page of your school notebooks.

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 00:47:44 2018 No.10766055 >>10766050 Tfw old high school textbooks were full of my poems

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 00:48:52 2018 No.10766058 File: 305 KB, 1080x1920, Screenshot_20180227-110512.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] In light of the awesome criticism I've received, I've updated my poem. The 'twas line is a reference to the Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 00:59:08 2018 No.10766088

A continuum of rain pours up from the floorboards
Syncopated by the Peter pipers drum roll.
The rubber on the road punctuates the static between notes
Culling the herd of children
Into hobbit holes trademarked by sightless feints.
The destination is the journey
Reminds us of communicative properties
Such as the Dallas/Ft. Worth
International airports. Stop me if you can,
Say when if you catch me.
I'll be Tom if you'll be Jerry
And Ben'll be none the wiser, no more
Than angry men sitting in a room
Arguing over the placement of Ö
In the new worlds newfangled alphabet
To be named in time due unto itself
As others hath fury as a woman scorned in hell—
Hounds hopped up on meth
Rabidly file taxes
And flee the state
Scoping out resistantless paths
Offshot a road not taken,
Offbeaten and not traveled
By any streetcars forgetting their name.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 01:00:51 2018 No.10766097
File: 105 KB, 520x762, 12632279_f520.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Monopoly Games End in Trust

Raw sewage
filtered through selvage,
abandoned bacterial Roanokes,
Jamestowns left for salvage by more driven men,
manning chassis built for over 401K blue miles
stitched together by arid cityscapes
and blossoming cacti Northwest of the Big Red
trying so hardly to rush the evidence out the mouth,
soon to be or not to be engulfed by black razorback packed geysers
of moribund barnacle gush,
streams of gills, seagulls, and 2¢ thrills
reaching, with minute grabs,
the top 40 low hanging fruit
from the forbidden pine tree
covered as well in scones baked by bored gods
enervated by eternity's infernal presence on the present,
only momentarily giving way like Katrina's eddies
to fervor fermented in the psychosocial interstices
created by ocularly entangled passersby
by the municipal courts for micro-cellularly managed peoples
squandering their livelihoods
by betting on losing dogs in the Thunderdome,
a panoply of gruesome twosome banality
and stagggering quotidian cleft,
leaving firefly crescendos flaccid in concert
with important impotent stillness
heard in the hearts of oblate spheroid hominid self-sycophants
in intra infanticidal marathons
of self-mutilating listlessness
lilting to the mute tones of tickling shoulder men
borne out the breath of a persecutor's dragon
suffocating in clouds of nitrogen liquidated,
poured upon the linoleum lined leagues of ticker tape
counting each incredulous cough of green bile
sputtering forth, fifth, from the esophagal railways
of a Detroit long bankrupt
due to a ravenous infestation
of a tattering, withering, usparsimonious apathy,
forlorn in its praise as the penultimate doorstop
between pain and frame, nagged incessantly by a dead wife
unfaithful to you the waif, naive knave,
stultified by the sheer neuronal gravity
of a thought postmaturely gestated
but constipated by opioid reluctance to kneel
to porcelain deities known as duty
to reflect back up from the tile
and steel away an iridescent fragment of one tomorrow today
so as to enshroud upon oneself an irrelevantly false sense of solace,
shorn comfortability, to deny denial one more claim
upon the throne within the Taj Citadel
centered in the cosmopolis orbiting the neutronal pivot piece
of a system on/off balance
at every torades des pointes
of the quasi-cyclical cycle of day-in-day-out
of redundant repetition sowing so-so's
into grinning grim reaps of the hidden hand
that Christ followers forget as kismet.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 01:12:12 2018 No.10766135

>>10766058

*lied

Last stanza is on point. The rest is fly food. Jk, I quite like the tone. Would question the redundancy of the first two lines of the second to last stanza: soul, spirit, etc. You get it. Also, All the semicolons and hyphens (you really should consider the OG em-dash) and commas and whatnot stifle the flow. Consider trimming the punctuation, is what I'm saying.

Also kinda reminds me of a poem I wrote a few years back:

Buzz buzzing the fly flies
Buzzing in my ear and out of sight.
The wings flap, the air snaps,
the eyes that don't wonder
wander into the doorframe.

They fly flies aimlessly
like an automatic vacuum
or homeless man from Cleveland
whose nest was probably
the flying fly's home.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 02:46:16 2018 No.10766429

>>10766058
Very tidy, very nice. Good use of subtle rhymes.
Just one thing:
>That men hath make
'Hath' isn't correct there. If you want to keep that line creaky and archaic, you could say "that man doth make" (CF Ancient Mariner "...the pilot's boy / who now doth crazy go").

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 05:34:19 2018 No.10766770 >>10766135 >>10766429 Thanks guys. Made some more changes but I'm happy with what I've written. Cheers, keep writing.

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 05:38:16 2018 No.10766781 >>10766135 And no, I checked, lied won't work in the first line.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 10:21:00 2018 No.10767455

>>10766088
>continuum
If you're using that as a deliberate malapropism for poetic purpose, keep it, otherwise, "I do not think it means what you think it means." Resistantless isn't a word either but again, poetic license could allow it. You've clearly made up the word 'offbeaten' and I like it.
I also like the idea of rain being syncopated. That's really clever, actually.

>>	Anonymous Tue Feb 27 14:21:03 2018 No.10768314 >>10763491 Really interesting background, thank you for sharing.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 14:24:02 2018 No.10768336

How fucking infuriating that the Spring could make me so at peace

That the Ultimate Questions of January now just sound like tired riddles

That the grapes ripen just as I convince myself that I've lost my appetite

That now I should have to chose between Pride and Hunger

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 14:26:18 2018 No.10768346

She looked at me for a moment locked in time
eyes, emerald gilded sunspots through shattered glass,
this ore a boon, alloyed spirit held at length,
winds of change spewed from Eden's maw,
eyes now further than the stars littering the empty sky,
those eyes, now sultry soil.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 14:31:35 2018 No.10768374

>>10760786

haikus

I have written them a year (I remember I came here to the office to study and ended up writing some small poems). I used 3 verses, but not with the 5-7-5 metric. I used 3 verses of 10 poetic syllables.

The originals are in Portuguese. I will post the translations first, and then the originals.

1) Both alone, me and Peter- Hobbler*, the dog.
He suffers with the scratching of scabies on his flesh
Me with the scabies of poetry on my brain.

2) Paws crossed, eyes half open,
In docile meditation the cat submerges:
More than in myself the Buddha inhabits in him

3) If the mind, when crude, is a tamarin, mine
Is a whole clan of tamarins, with flies, with fleas,
And the chaos of this festival of itchiness.

4) My thoughts fly up, swim among the galaxies,
Sperm searching for the egg of God;
But my belly growls, and suddenly I fall.

*Peter-Hobbler (in Portuguese: Pedro Manco) is a street dog that people in the firm adopted. He is accustomed to hang out inside the office building. He was with me on that fine Saturday morning when I wrote the poems. He suffers with scabies and was hit by a car. He was saved by people in a do-shelter and adopted by the owners of the firm.

Originals

1) Sozinhos, eu e Pedro-Manco, o cão.
Ele sofre a coçar sarna na carne,
Eu a sarna poética em meu cérebro.

2) Patas cruzadas, olhos semi-abertos,
Em dócil meditar submerge o gato:
Mais do que em mim habita nele o Buda.

3) Se a mente, quando crua, é um mico, a minha
É um clã de micos, com moscas, com pulgas,
E o caos do festival dessa coceira.

4) Meu pensar voa, nada entre as galáxias,
Esperma a buscar o óvulo de Deus;
Mas a barriga ronca e eu caio, súbito.

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 18:35:54 2018 No.10769450

Astoria

A bridge holds two homes together
Trust carrying them across
Rusted green chips flake off into the pacific
I stand on the dock
With gulls diving to a bed of waves

Sturgeon shine out of the dusty tides, clapping
Wings make peace with the water, clapping
Native conversation and jokes clapping

Through a lens that ticks
I throw in another quarter my feet on its metal rim
Footprints shaved off the name
Astoria

tiny painted houses slid off the hill
Like marbles they rolled
sitting at the foot of an abyss

Looking out now
All the empty space
Tick….
My lens cuts to black
And I feel far so far away

Anonymous Tue Feb 27 23:33:22 2018 No.10770627

flooding

"will you still remember me?" well,
let's see once we've left the sea side (way
below hills). we've been high and still for a while - now
let the low tide turn and rise over
the blue tile in this bath
is now more
& more blue

i've waded for weeks now
sinking slow in my night shirt
drink down to my floor & spit out the dirt
wait with me while this slickness dries

do you feel as lost in this town
as i did that night
i stopped hearing your sighs?

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 00:14:47 2018 No.10770797 aaple

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 00:17:49 2018 No.10770813 it is a blessing to be the colour of poo because flies land on you

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 00:18:59 2018 No.10770821 >>10770813 Very nice

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 00:21:01 2018 No.10770826 >>10770821 Folded waters frozen on the table top; Free of the cup; bereft of windstruck mouths Filled with sand, that yearn for a taste.

Anonymous Wed Feb 28 00:49:11 2018 No.10770941
File: 492 KB, 922x862, diogenes.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

I wanted to play with the idea of Atlantis for a superhero setting where Atlantis happened somehow but all the ancient Atlanteans are completely batshit insane and so can't be trusted to figure out what actually happened. Also possibly they are behind the myths of elves and pagan gods. So basically they are all superpowered philosopher hobo kings.

I came from Atlantis of the past
/ X / X / X / X /
sunken city of lost legend
/ X / X / X / X
Some say it lasted a thousand years
/ X / X / X / X /
But I say the city lived just ten
/ X / X / X / X /
goddess born from brightest heads
/ X / X / X /
was the greatest city in the world
/ X / X / X / X /
and when reason's practise came to end
/ X / X / X / X /
we studied insanity instead!
/ X / X / X / X /
and when our gods sent us prophecy
/ X / X / X / X /
we divined the day before the ocean rose to devastate us all and
/ X / X / X / X / X / X / X / X / X
we drank hemlock!
/ X / X

to earth I fell from Atlantis
/ X / X / X / X
the most greatest planet of the spheres
/ X / X / X / X /
we had no religion or worship
/ X / X / X / X /
but our heroes they became our gods
/ X / X / X / X /
and woke up the titan Tartarus
/ X / X / X / X /
at the planet's heart that we contained
/ X / X / X / X /
spread his evil and poisoned our men
/ X / X / X / X /
so our gods gave me their forces combined
/ X / X / X / X /
and I killed Atlantis!
/ X / X / X

There is a fantastic magic realm
/ X / X / X / X /
we call the dream of Atlantis
/ X / X / X / X
a child's dream that was mankind's last hope
/ X / X / X / X /
but a child's whim spawned a dark abyss
/ X / X / X / X /
that consumed my home land long ago
/ X / X / X / X /

I tell you all each and every story of Atlantis is of truest diamond truth!
/ X / X / X / X / X / X / X / X / X / X /
each and every lie is only but a matter of perception!
/ X / X / X / x / x / X / X / X

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 04:02:01 2018 No.10771429 >>10769450 Very immersive. I like it.

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 04:07:38 2018 No.10771443 >>10770941 I like the story very much. Feels very authentic. >most greatest This isn't correct grammar Are the X's pronounced as 'z'?

Anonymous Wed Feb 28 13:02:04 2018 No.10772913

So I came back and saw the same things
There's that word again, I said
I came back, the words came back
But just their shape and form

So who is this, the form asked
The shape, and the shape motioned to me,
The form, the sound returned to the letter,
And in a moment of lucid returning,
I heard the letters again, clacking beneath
The thrust of monkey paws,
The form bought it a while back,
In a stall in South America for too much

But still cheap. The paw came with a note
That was so sunfaded and withered
The words and letters were mostly invisible
So I asked the form, why he left it,
The note, and he replied

Maybe this is one of those things
That like doesn't really mean much
That like isn't any of your business
And before he could go on, I got back
In my innertube and drifted downstream.

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 13:25:47 2018 No.10773004 >>10770627 good vibe overall and some great lines, but there were some cutesy "poetic" devices ("more & more," "waded for weeks") and a few overly sentimental lines that seem a little too obvious for my taste.

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 13:42:03 2018 No.10773056 >>10768374 your third one is great. i enjoyed the english translation, and the portuguese version seems to have a great sound/rhythm when i "read" it aloud (coming from one who doesn't speak it).

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 14:54:53 2018 No.10773356 >>10760786 it's a funny story, my favorite bit is "[...] killed an atheist fly". But I don't understand your use of archaic stuff like "hath" or "'Twas" when at the same time you're using modern terms.

Anonymous Wed Feb 28 15:28:44 2018 No.10773512

>>10773056

Thank you very much, not only for the reading of the translation, but for even trying to see how the original would sound like.

I know how difficult it is to understand the sonority of a language we don’t have any idea about.

I was reading Camille Paglia’s Sexual Personae, and came to this passage:

>Falling on Aeneas' sword, Dido cries, "Sic, sic iuvat ire sub umbras" ("Thus, thus is it pleasing to go beneath the shades"). The liquid Latin is thrillingly, hypnotically autoerotic, like honey and dark wine. The shadowy tongue tapping in our mouth is as private and phallic as the fetishistic sword.

I was curious about how that line:

>Moriemur inultae,
>Sed moriamur’ ait. ‘sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras

Would sound, but I have no idea how to speak it in a natural way

Anonymous Wed Feb 28 18:25:08 2018 No.10774429

An angsty piece I wrote in uni

"Taiga Girl"

Do you exist?
I want to ask you
but if I really saw you
the question would be moot

You may not exist
You may be the work of an artist
Sitting at a monitor
In Monaco maybe, or Vegas or LA—anywhere

But if you do exist
Somewhere where you're not encased in LCD or plastic
The brute in me wants me to do something
The brute in me wants me to save you

Save you from what, you ask?
From the national yoke of peasantry
From the men who will abuse you
From the city that will crush your dreams

Yes you will like it here
Because America has everything you'd ever want
We will see the deserts and mountains and beaches
And you will say—with that Slavic lilt—that you like American things

But I know this cannot happen
Because the journey over the steppes
Would dull your hair and bulge your waste and loosen your ass and wither your cheeks
You cannot be exported—you are indigenous

Oh Taiga girl
Your domain is the purple twilight hissing frost
Yours is the fur and the backward letters and the ornate tea ceremony and the dumplings
Yours is the face on the billboards behind the tramcars celebrating a new dawn for a beleagured and stoic people

Oh Taiga girl, I will come to you

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 18:58:47 2018 No.10774575 >>10774429 >burger yearns for manic pixie slav girl if this is a joke, it's okay if it's serious, i'm at a loss for words

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 19:07:24 2018 No.10774613 >>10774575 joke. it's about some russian model on metart or some site like that

Anonymous Wed Feb 28 19:44:19 2018 No.10774794

Bed-bound, sat upright,
time wanders drunken
through promethazine nights.
Memories as real as dreams I can't recall
have the gall to call me out
and say this:
I am not moving on.
I am living by degrees.

I'm sad and drunk and want someone to teach me how to write poetry please thanks.

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 20:29:21 2018 No.10774990 No rhyme or reason to it Unleashing the wild dog of life Running free until it gets hit by a car While coughing blood It thinks Fucking right bud

Robert Frost's The Road Not Ta(...) Wed Feb 28 21:19:29 2018 No.10775142

At the same time, for some reason,
"Look, there is no mind"
Snakes and winds
Where and what is this?
Click here to see:

Give it today
so
What is missing?
Book Store
So,

FTP
Discussion.
At the same time, the same position:
Do you want to participate?
If you have a problem, you can not do it

In short, you have to understand this
This meeting
connected,
For this purpose,
distribution:

Hamlet's Soliloquy Through Lik(...) Wed Feb 28 21:28:38 2018 No.10775175
File: 54 KB, 609x480, e182d673a6d411afa3668ef722cd94f1.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

No, questions.
"Heart Vibration"
More images and flowers
The bomb is from a ship.
And because he was taken. death
No one is asleep and ready
Choria and thousands of natural effects
This diet is important. "Sport
God for His Death?
Sleep - sleeping in bed. There is a fight,
Do your dream?
By editing this file,
You have to rest

>>	Anonymous Wed Feb 28 22:26:41 2018 No.10775412 How proud and joyous that you are to make your father's shield a sword? Love-drunk fool trapped inside your cause the sword kills and will kill again

O Captain My Captain Through L(...) Wed Feb 28 22:27:49 2018 No.10775417
File: 63 KB, 500x714, 2dd94b7d4eda1428f98268162659bdff--death-poem-captain-my-captain.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Oh my boss! The capital is called.
We won
When he heard this, he was very happy.
Deception and false imagination
But my heart is hidden.
Blood red,
You do not believe me
Watering

Oh my boss! Breakfast is included.
Delete - Search for maps - Sound your brother.
Each of her gold and herbs - have different forms of tissue,
Important areas for crop cultivation.
Captain! My dad loves me!
for you
Maniok
You hold

And the king said unto him, "Go to peace"
His father did not feel his hand.
Open flights, stop and depart.
As a result, the growth of machinery.
From f
But my sadness
He asked the sword
Watering

Anonymous Wed Feb 28 23:01:30 2018 No.10775542

MY NAME JESUS
I AM FOURTEEN YEAR OLD
PLEASE SEND MONEY TO MY FAMILY
IN DEVASTATED MIDDLE EAST COUNTRY
ROME WASN'T BUILT IN A DAY
JESUS HERE
I JUST WANTED TO SAY THANK YOU
FOR READING THIS ROME
WASN'T BUILT
IN A DAY JESUS WANTED
TO THANK YOU
SAY BUILT IN A DAY
ROME WASN'T JESUS
FOURTEEN YEAR OLD
JESUS IN A DEVASTATED
MIDDLE DAY
EAST JESUS BUILT JESUS
THANK DEVASTATED JESUS
ROME WASN'T COUNTRY JESUS
I AM JESUS
JESUS WASN'T BUILT IN A
DEVASTATED MIDDLE
ROME COUNTRY
JESUS MIDDLE JESUS
EAST MIDDLE WASN'T
DEVASTATED IN A DAY

published a few years ago in my college lit mag

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 1 03:05:41 2018 No.10776242 File: 278 KB, 1440x2560, Screenshot_20180301-030403.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Pls like

Anonymous Thu Mar 1 03:09:41 2018 No.10776257

I've loved Psyche, who never sees me, and knows not of my intentions, but loves me despite,

And in slumber poise on white sheets she's lain gorgeously;

in slithered pose shunned by sisters she still sees me;

and in trial, Soul seeks friend to cheat Beauty,

If only to see god's ugly wings

>>	Anonymous Thu Mar 1 06:33:08 2018 No.10776775 File: 31 KB, 306x360, poem.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

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/lit/ - Literature