/crit/

[Anonymous No.12228221]

In the Fall, which was so fair, I found
False thoughts and a hook’s ensnare
Melody of regret, all twisted around
Old men they tell me beware:
Behind every pleasure is some kind of pain

You had all those old Russian books
And you called me the pessimist
That Autumn sun shafts poured through peepholes
Onto some slipstream of memory I wish I forgot
The name of Virtu’s vowels sinking into the blue; that night
I came into a bath towel and was thinking of you

[Anonymous No.12228313]

>>12228221
nice, i enjoyed reading that

[Anonymous No.12228698]

I would love some feedback/critique on this.

[Anonymous No.12228712]

>>12228221
can someone help me open my mind? ive never read in my life poetry that i haven't found trite outside of maybe some weird ee cummings shit but even that just came off as not trite for nearly the sole sake of not being trite or at least not particularly interesting

[Anonymous No.12229248]

The beginning of a short story I'm writing. It's a dreamlike satire written in a mockingly archaic style. I'm aware of how overly descriptive it is, I'm just throwing everything at the canvas to begin with.

1/2

My acquaintance and I met on the first snowy night of December at a dinner party hosted by our mutual friends, the esteemed Governor and his wife. He was raving over his dearest Anna, and though I remained sitting politely, sipping my schnapps, I was finding it increasingly difficult not to throttle the bugger from across our little table. I kept my composure, nodding along and smiling endearingly, but inside I was beginning to boil. Who was this scoundrel to brag of his dearest before a lonely bachelor sipping schnapps at a dinner party? And with such a scoundrel's nose, indeed!

It began like this:

Picture myself, quietly indulging in the cocktail shrimp at my solitary office in the corner of the dining hall. A waltz is being played on the piano, the gentlemen are gathered around the room, smoking their pipes in loosely formed circles, and their wives are all in a flock by the hostess. With her frilly red dress and enormous pearl earrings, she stands out amongst the ladies, and looks more like a dream consort than the wife of that burly old man, the Governor. A jovial air of chatter and laughter hangs over the party. Beholding the high stacks of pastries and sweets that had just been laid out on the table in the center of the room, I am perfectly content in my own company.

Presently enters our devil in question, who, after surveying the party from the entryway, catches my wandering gaze. At first he acts coy, his shifty eyes darting left to right in a clear mockery of suspicion, but I must have been of peculiar interest to him, for he very quickly begins slithering towards me through the crowd. Judging by the dubious grin he now bares across his face - one which looks to suggest an intrigue, or an inside joke - I realize this will not be an encounter I can easily avoid.

"Imagine us!" Was his grand introduction. "Two handsome young gentlemen of the highest standard health and grooming, with the whitest of teeth, and a full head of hair, here alone at a society party with neither of us a date by our side! What's your excuse?"

He sat down promptly across from me, plucked a shrimp from my glass, and popped it into his mouth. He wore a long, elegant swallowtail coat, fine leather boots, and donned on his bird's nest of curly hair, a black top hat, which he was evidently very proud of by the way he delicately caressed the brim between two spindly fingers. His face was waxy and unusually handsome, but had the disconcerting quality of a mask. I suspected he was not actually on his own here, but it was of no consequence to me.

"I'm just here on invitation," I said. (A lie.)

"What's your relation to the Governor?" He asked.

"A distant nephew." (Another lie.)

[Anonymous No.12229255]

>>12229248

2/2

He leaned back in his chair and scrutinized me closely. I could tell he was sizing me up.

"Ah well, myself... Just out to enjoy the evening. I really know nobody here." With that he gave a wink. "Oh, but look! The snow's already beginning to fall!"

I turned to look out the window across the room, and indeed outside, it had begun to snow lightly from the darkening sky.

"It's sure to be a wonderful night!" He said. "One might fancy a stroll through the streets if one doesn't find oneself bogged down here with this unruly bunch for too long..."

He nodded in the direction of the Governor, who, surrounded by a circle of intimates, was nearly falling over in laughter as one of the servants - a ratty little man - was attempting to balance a martini glass on his nose, obviously at the order of his master, and quite succeeding, too, though he was bent over backwards nearly to his waist, spilling drink all over his tuxedo.

"A little chilly for me," I said.

He began musing: "If only my dearest Anna were here... Isn't it a sweet thing, our love? If only you knew... On a night like tonight, with such a moon in the sky! She'd start us off the couch with a little tickle under the arm, as she usually does when some whimsical fancy's got ahold of her senses, and, well, you know women!..." And so on.

The more he spoke, the more animated he became. Soon he was gesticulating wildly. Every now and then, his eyes would burst aflame, and he'd shoot me a strange glance, as if to make sure I was listening to every word he was saying, and read by the look on my face the affect his words were having on me. Was I envious? He must have thought. Was I impressed? Had I been swept away by his irresistable charm? I imagined this really mattered to him. The longer I sat in silence, seeding him on with my courteous nods and bashful toasts, his confidence seemed to grow. His tone was haughty and patronizing. He spoke sharply and eloquently, never skipping a beat, or tripping over his own tongue; but the words he spoke were shallow and monotonous, bold and braggadocious, clearly designed to stir with their sizzle, rather than their substance. He went on, and on, and on, and only spoke of his splendid Anna, who by now I was convinced bore some distant relation to the late Cleopatra. I was at once confused, irritated, and at a loss for words. My patience was waning. As I've already mentioned, it took quite a lot of restraint not to simply fling my snack in his face, and walk away. But I couldn't bring myself to say a word against him, shy creature that I am! I must have been red as a beet and sweating profusely.

My eyes fell upon the candle in the center of the table, its pathetic flame working desperately to free itself from the wick. I scoured my mind for a way out.

[Anonymous No.12229534]

[Anonymous No.12229560]

The years have fled like eagles
To a dozen different climes;
But we still hear the ringing
Of the unforgotten chimes.

On the hills of Ithaca, faintly
In the town and on the like;
Like the footbells of a fairy
Would their dying echoes break.

In all the depths and valleys
Below the ocean to the shore;
They have rung their tunes often
As they have never rung before.

And beyond the high Sierras
Where the patient burros climb;
We have heard the distant ringing.
We have heard the Cornell chimes.

I stop sometimes and listen
To the ponderous, lofty bell;
My thoughts, my soul are moved
Awakened by its spell.

Or the minor tones ring sadly
For another's vanished life;
For she remembers also those who gave
In painful times of strife.

But their warm hearts speak forever
In a flood of mellow times;
Their voices, small but constant
In the aria of their chimes.

We have passed sometimes quite closely
To the reaper and his scythe;
We have faced the storm and darkness.
We have saved alone the tithe.

And we may sow the grain with vigor
But we reap with weary hands;
Knotting in our wilting lilies
Tending to infertile lands.

Yet the sun need not be hidden
Nor the stars in tumultuous times;
There is a courage in its music.
There is a magic in the chimes.

They uplift the misty curtains
From the wide expanse of years;
They are hands outstretched to help us.
They are eyes that fill with tears.

The soldier dies exultant
With his country on his lips;
The sailor sinks undaunted
Amid the white sails of his ships.

From the colored fields of summer
To the darkened wintertimes;
Let our hearts be strong and brave.
We have heard the Cornell chimes.

[Anonymous No.12229566]

[Anonymous No.12229578]

[Anonymous No.12229786]

‘Where’s the baby?’

The baby?

She opens her eyes. ‘There’s the baby!’

I see the baby. He’s in her eye. I reach for him he reaches for me.

‘Don’t, sweetie.’

‘Eye baby,’ I say.

She gasps. ‘Yes! You baby!’

I stare at him. Me?

‘He spoke!’

‘What did he say?’

I look up at the man. ‘I, baby.’

They laugh and shout and kiss. They kiss me.

The only baby. I cry.

Only the big man laughs.

She looks at him. ‘Shut up.’

‘I, robot.’ His voice is funny.

She stares at him.

He stops.

I stop.

Silence.

[Anonymous No.12229820]

>>12229786
adorable desu

[Anonymous No.12229907]

I have been writing poetry almost nonstop for like 48 hours. This one is the worst. You guys can have it. I disown it.

Flowers lovely come in Spring
Beauty and of youth they sing
Some are never found but hide
Others grow in places seen

In the garden you will find
Reddest flower and most high
But my favorite blossom grows
Close to where the snows still lie

Secret pastures little known
Where men rarely will to go
In the coldest lands up high
Far above the rose below

I went up the steep inclines
Past the trail's old rotten signs
And there saw a crevice creek
Meadow yellow there besides

Beauty in its rarity
Youth in all its scarcity
But to those who come late be
Cautioned that you will not see

[Anonymous No.12229921]

>>12229820

:3

So it's intelligible?

[Anonymous No.12229927]

>>12229820

:3

So it's intelligible? Is it clear that he sees his reflection in her eye? Does it makes sense?

[Anonymous No.12229951]

>>12229907
>I disown it
I'm glad because goddamn is it boring

[Anonymous No.12230025]

>>12229534
This is far better than the first draft. The parenthetical part has more of a purpose, and the ending is satisfying. Well done anon

[Anonymous No.12230047]

>>12229786
Damn. Kind of sad no? I like it

[Anonymous No.12230054]

Give me the business

I had a weird dream the other night. Dad, myself, and some guy—a passenger in the right seat—drove down a two lane back road. I sat in the rear middle seat where I saw that oblong, passenger nose-angle you get back there. Everything had that oblong look. As they passed my window, the trees and sky stretched out as if someone had over enlarged a blurred image of a forest and recursively superimposed it over itself. Nothing happened for a while. The low, heavy hum of tires over road and an engine running made a noisy silence.

Dad was getting tired. His one long eye flickered a siren song. We had been driving for four days, and each one of us had black, swollen eyes. Someone had to say something. If the hummed up silence had its way, we’d’ve wrap around a tree. I said to Dad, “Hey I think I’m going to take a few more classes at the college next semester.” “Yeah I’m thinking like picking up calc three again and maybe a couple of other classes.” “Yeah I shouldn’t fuck it up like I did last time.” I have a bad habit of laughing along a silent room after making bad jokes. “Hey I saw the Giants lost another game. I’ll tell ya that Eli Manning.” His eyes were going. I’m never loud enough is the problem.

His eyes shut, and we began to swerve. I didn’t tell you about the passenger: like that he had been knitting a scarf for my mother. It’s real nice of the guy to do that. He spent days on the thing: fat chunks of days that he’d also spend telling stories to Dad. One story he told a week before the swerves went like this.

Yeah, you know, the fishery out in Montauk. We went out there—it had to’ve been 2 am or something—and we were drunk as hell. Peter and Matt had brought like 6 cases of bud, and each of us probably had like 20 beers each. Fucking gassed. Anyways, we’re out there just shootin’ the shit and fucking off from camp, telling ‘em how I’d floated down on Kittatinny all plastered, free as a trout, and just about swallowed my life. I told you about that one.
—Was that even true? I thought. Didn’t Billy go floating down Kittatinny? How embarrassing that he’d steal that when those cousins had been there too: Peter, Matt, Danny, Michael—all of them. Apparently they didn’t give care though cause they still all like the passenger just as well. He went on.
Matt got the idea all of a sudden to steal the lobster traps like the fucked guy he is. Fucked up fucker. Just like me.
—He had an over rehearsed laugh at his own joke. Also, I’d like to point out how Catholic my father is, and the passenger cursed like this all the time with him.

[Anonymous No.12230070]

>>12230047

Yeah kind of sad. It gets a lot sadder. I'm glad you like it :)

[Anonymous No.12230106]

Give me the business. Another anon said I needed to work on syntax, fragmentation, brevity, some other things. I tried.

I had a weird dream the other night. Dad, myself, and some guy—a passenger in the right seat—drove down a two lane back road. I sat in the rear middle seat where I saw that oblong, passenger nose-angle you get back there. Everything had that oblong look. As they passed my window, the trees and sky stretched out as if someone had over enlarged a blurred image of a forest and recursively superimposed it over itself. Nothing happened for a while. The low, heavy hum of tires over road and an engine running made a noisy silence.

Dad was getting tired. His one long eye flickered a siren song. We had been driving for four days, and each one of us had black, swollen eyes. Someone had to say something. If the hummed up silence had its way, we’d’ve wrap around a tree. I said to Dad, “Hey I think I’m going to take a few more classes at the college next semester.” “Yeah I’m thinking like picking up calc three again and maybe a couple of other classes.” “Yeah I shouldn’t fuck it up like I did last time.” I have a bad habit of laughing along a silent room after making bad jokes. “Hey I saw the Giants lost another game. I’ll tell ya that Eli Manning.” His eyes were going. I’m never loud enough is the problem.

His eyes shut, and we began to swerve. I didn’t tell you about the passenger: like that he had been knitting a scarf for my mother. It’s real nice of the guy to do that. He spent days on the thing: fat chunks of days that he’d spend telling stories to Dad. A story he told a week before the swerves went like this.

Yeah, you know, the fishery out in Montauk. We went out there—it had to’ve been 2 am or something—and we were drunk as hell. Peter and Matt had brought like 6 cases of bud, and each of us probably had like 20 beers each. Fucking gassed. Anyways, we’re out there just shootin’ the shit and fucking off from camp, telling ‘em how I’d floated down on Kittatinny all plastered, free as a trout, and just about swallowed my life. I told you about that one.
—Was that even true? Didn’t Billy go floating down Kittatinny? How embarrassing that he’d steal that when those cousins had been there too: Peter, Matt, Danny, Michael—all of them. Apparently they didn’t care because they still liked the passenger just as well. He went on.
Matt got the idea all of a sudden to steal the lobster traps like the fucked guy he is. Fucked up fucker. Just like me.
—He had an over rehearsed laugh at his own joke. Also, I’d like to point out how Catholic my father is, and the passenger cursed like this all the time with him.
Swerve 1 gave me whiplash. We crossed the yellow lines and took a 45/135 degree angle to them.

Swerves become days, months, or years, indistinguishable from each other and inaccurate frames of time.. The dream was never a dream but reality.

[Anonymous No.12230113]

I had a weird dream the other night. Dad, myself, and some guy—a passenger in the right seat—drove down a two lane back road. I sat in the rear middle seat where I saw that oblong, passenger nose-angle you get back there. Everything had that oblong look. As they passed my window, the trees and sky stretched out as if someone had over enlarged a blurred image of a forest and recursively superimposed it over itself. Nothing happened for a while. The low, heavy hum of tires over road and an engine running made a noisy silence.

Dad was getting tired. His one long eye flickered a siren song. We had been driving for four days, and each one of us had black, swollen eyes. Someone had to say something. If the hummed up silence had its way, we’d’ve wrap around a tree. I said to Dad, “Hey I think I’m going to take a few more classes at the college next semester.” “Yeah I’m thinking like picking up calc three again and maybe a couple of other classes.” “Yeah I shouldn’t fuck it up like I did last time.” I have a bad habit of laughing along a silent room after making bad jokes. “Hey I saw the Giants lost another game. I’ll tell ya that Eli Manning.” His eyes were going. I’m never loud enough is the problem.

His eyes shut, and we began to swerve. I didn’t tell you about the passenger: like that he had been knitting a scarf for my mother. It’s real nice of the guy to do that. He spent days on the thing: fat chunks of days that he’d spend telling stories to Dad. A story he told a week before the swerves went like this.

Yeah, you know, the fishery out in Montauk. We went out there—it had to’ve been 2 am or something—and we were drunk as hell. Peter and Matt had brought like 6 cases of bud, and each of us probably had like 20 beers each. Fucking gassed. Anyways, we’re out there just shootin’ the shit and fucking off from camp, telling ‘em how I’d floated down on Kittatinny all plastered, free as a trout, and just about swallowed my life. I told you about that one.
—Was that even true? Didn’t Billy go floating down Kittatinny? How embarrassing that he’d steal that when those cousins had been there too: Peter, Matt, Danny, Michael—all of them. Apparently they didn’t care because they still liked the passenger just as well. He went on.
Matt got the idea all of a sudden to steal the lobster traps like the fucked guy he is. Fucked up fucker. Just like me.
—He had an over rehearsed laugh at his own joke. Also, I’d like to point out how Catholic my father is, and the passenger cursed like this all the time with him.

[Anonymous No.12230168]

>>12229560
Full of cliches, doesnt seem to know what its theme is, clumsy meter, way too long.

>soldier dies exultant
>sailor sinks undaunted
Do they now? Did you watch a war movie recently or something?

[Anonymous No.12230203]

>>12230113
You do not need to embellish every single image with description. There is nothing wrong with a sentence like,

"We had been driving for days, each of us tired."

Theres a lot more thats wrong with this.

>>12229566
>clock hands are like people hands
>yesterday's today

Wrote the exact same ideas when I was younger. Its interesting how when many of us start trying to write our minds move in the same sequences. Pretty terrible poem, seems only to say "Look, I am a poem!"

[Anonymous No.12230215]

>>12229578
Read any TS Eliot lately? I cant discern a point if this has one. Surprise me, please.

[Anonymous No.12230219]

AD HIEMS
I march 'neath the suffocating grey expanses,
The disordered dwelling of chances
Ill-spent, if at all.
Brief flickers of sense that shriek
And fall
From those forever-distant limbs whose knotted gnarls
Demand your attention
Your belief's momentary suspension
Enough time, for never is enough,
To express the cold shiver crawling down Nature's spine,
Her twisted chord of rope running from head to toe
In whose pull the chilled human spirit
Is dragged to and fro.
Captive in it, I am -
A man and his shade
He who's heart the wintry air has greyed
Nay, blackened,
Driven to ruin and dread
Awaiting her rope to be slackened.
Down this leaf-littered path I am led,
Where my eyes conjure tears,
Being met with the chilled, whirling force.
Once the tears, now thick with frost,
Set in around burning eyes lost
And uprooted,
They seize that restless roaming now refuted.

[Anonymous No.12230223]

I knew the store would close at twelve
So hurried through its shelves
And frantic sought a thing unnamed
Then suddenly beheld

A monolith that lighted, rang
And then your voice proclaim
You'd rather have my closeness
My voice less far away

My cheeks became like roses
Glad that you had proposed it
I said to you "Ill see you soon"
Drunken love imposed it

With haste- the clock hands boomed!-
My shopping I resumed
At last I found a good to claim
A thing you'd love, I knew

"I know your face, whats your name?"
Said the clerk when I came through
"I saw you come by yesterday!"
And he smiled for he was new...

What harm can a little bubbly do?
My love, my lover too!
And so I brought my burden you
When I showed up with champagne

[Anonymous No.12230226]

>>12229578
really good.

[Anonymous No.12230234]

>>12229560
Love the old-fashioned style. You Greek? I'd recommend a read-through for meter, though, there are some lines out of sync, like "Amid the white sails of his ships". Stanzas 3 and 5 are a little awkward.

>>12230113
This is quality. I scrolled past on the front page and assumed it was pasted from something. It's a style that has almost been done to death, but you keep it interesting. Try adding more commas or hyphens for the conversational cadence, and maybe get rid of the 'it was all a dream' stuff. Maybe the rest of the story's told as the car's possibly crashing.

[Anonymous No.12230246]

>>12230219
poem 2

Jamestown

A burning itch rises from the deep,
Rouses my hunger from its complacent sleep
Cast on shores, foreign and absurd
In the bowels of our ship a scream is heard
We embark upon this travel, bearing our heap
Our lust and yearning - tongue's unspoken word

Savage infinity cannot quell the flame
A hawk-like eye discerns the same
The memory of our Old rushes headlong into new
Diving, screeching terror, scourge from yonder blue
Firm hands are needed, Nature resists its tame
We unremitting predators shall shackle her, too

Construct by day, convene by fire at night
Pagan plans conjured in the bask of flame's light
Faces wore thinly like the living in graves
There is no freedom, no reprieve which saves
Such is our burden, our masks of great fright
These are the talismans to ward off the waves

Soon we must feed, appease that gaping maw
Manly virtue thwarted under winter's hoary thaw
Their cheeks grow weary and embalm the face
Rise, ye sinners! Leave ye this place!
Whither shall we run? We enemies of all law
Who know not the hearth's warmth, its loving embrace

Heathen temples mark our initial conquest
The pains of fate give us no soothing rest
Farther up the road we shall soon encamp
Gone is the frost, instead we feel damp
One way forward: that way is west
Where Nature's howling winds extinguish life's lamp

Nothing, whispers Nature, nothing for thy taking
Mine is a hollow chamber filled with violent shaking
The native dance turns wild, casts shadows on the heart
But ours is a destiny we cannot depart
Warn us no more, for that hunger is awaking
I beseech thee, death, to give life its start

Albion's summer distances itself still
A dim recollection to abate my will
Now the seeds are sewn for our earthly gain
Let us leave off nostalgia to wax and wane
I shall avenge dead memories, I shall plunder, destroy, and kill
We enslave implacable Nature, yoke it 'neath this pain

Like wildfire it spreads, this lunatic vision
Moonlit fancies ebb into derision
This new world is vast - vast beyond measure
All the more reason to rack from it pleasure
Energetic frenzy compels us to collision
With age-old bounty and untold treasure

So hark, noble fellows, take from Nature more.
Thy hands fit for grasping that superfluous whore
Wring from her bosom every ounce and drop
'Til those shadows come around her screaming shan't stop
Brandish new weapons, newer honors, for war
Rollest thou, ever onward, to the hard-fought top

[Anonymous No.12230252]

>>12230219
This business about spines might have gone somewhere, the rest seems like unrelated theme cues. Give your poems force and integrity, try sticking to a single theme.

A terrible poem but I you have some kind of potential to work with, put some muscle and work into it. Read poetry or you cannot hope to write it.

[Anonymous No.12230260]

>>12230246
This does not sound anything like Jamestown. If youre curious check out "A Land as God Made It", a marvelous and historical paperback about Jamestown.

[Anonymous No.12230261]

>>12230168
Not defending the other cliches but the comparison is supposed to be specifically to a the romantic ideal of those images. What would be a better way to express that?

>>12230234
Yeah, I know it's unnecessarily lengthy and the meter isn't right, but I appreciate you pointing it out. Unfortunately, not Greek, but I'll take that as a compliment

[Anonymous No.12230266]

>>12230261
>What would be a better way

Make the poem in two obvious halves or with two opposites going back and forth.

A great challenge for you would be to turn the poem carefully, to make some sort of question or statement that ends one perspective and begs the other as an answer.

Have you read Dolce et Decorum Est? It might provide you with another angle.

I might start all over if I were you. Hope Im being helpful, dont mean to be harsh.

[Anonymous No.12230280]

>>12230261
That old-fashioned style needs a lot of revision and polish to make it work - after all, all the people you're imitating had no internet or tv to keep them distracted from revising their poetry.

Yeah, I just wondered if you were a Greek because I had to write a similar piece for my frat when I was pledging. Old fraternity songs would be a great inspiration if you want to get familiar with that style.

[Anonymous No.12230296]

>>12230266
>>12230280

Thanks for the tips. I'm very used to prose but have only just gotten interested in poetry, so I appreciate it. I have almost no idea what I'm doing.

I'll probably start from the top

[Anonymous No.12230313]

>>12230296
Im just now starting to appreciate poetry, after staring blankly at thousands of lines only occasionally saying "ah I get it!"

Its the most challenging form of language, its language^2. It takes a lot of effort and persistence but its a very worthwhile pursuit. You will learn a lot and learn to think and see differently.

Just read a ton of poetry and try hard to understand it.

[Anonymous No.12230316]

>>12230296
I wouldn't give up on it at all. It's an exercise in style, for sure, but a very well-executed one. Make a couple edits to fix meter and awkward phrasing, then call it a day. If you want to make a Version II incorporating >>12230266's big-picture critiques, do that as a separate poem. It's a tough skill for a new poet to learn, figuring out when you're just done with a poem as opposed to chopping and changing it into something entirely new.

[Anonymous No.12230323]

>>12230280
Its called quatrain, its timeless not old fashioned
And please dont study fraternity songs to learn it. Name a poet and chances qre they use the form, so you can study it by reading the works of nearly any poet you wish.

[Anonymous No.12230331]

>>12230313
I'd add to your point - read a lot of bad poetry. I had no idea why good poetry was good until I volunteered as an associate editor on a magazine which published poetry.

Also, don't make too many presentist assumptions about what poetry has to be - there is a perfectly good argument that Horace was right and Owen was wrong. A paean to Cornell expresses something genuine, but incomplete, of human experience just as any other good poem does.

[Anonymous No.12230336]

>>12230316

I think that's my biggest issue. I'm used to journalistic, opinion, and essay writing -- where I sometimes do big rewrites but can usually get main ideas on a page and expand from a rough structure into something more robust and expand/shrink different parts of the piece, change wording or sentence structure, and bring it to a presentable quality.

Poetry is nothing like this. A mistaken premise is almost irredeemable out of the gate. It's much harsher of a process, at least for me.

>>12230313
>>12230331
I might read a lot more before I revisit this given my lack of experience. I appreciate the advice

[Anonymous No.12230339]

>>12230331
I dont know what a presentist assumption is, I never read a word of Horace, and Owen was right.

[Anonymous No.12230340]

>>12230323
I don't mean the quatrain form, I mean the breathless praise of one's alma mater. That sort of college poem is a very specific historical style which is most definitely old-fashioned (unless you are an Angry Minority doing it sarcastically, in which case you'll be published regardless of quality).

[Anonymous No.12230346]

>>12230340
You are kindly asked to leave this board forever. Shoo, go play some BP, bro.

[Anonymous No.12230376]

>>12230336
The compactness of poetry means that editing can change the premise much more easily than it does in prose. A couple words can be the difference between sincerity and irony, political argument or sexual allusion, praise or condemnation. Editing is a chance to play with ideas as much as with words. You've got the right humility for it, though.

>>12230339
k

>>12230346
Looks like I'm being downvoted on r/4channel. Sad days.

[Anonymous No.12230403]

>>12230376
Post your poem

[Anonymous No.12230445]

>>12230234
My idea with the dream thing is to do some retarded subversion of the "it was a dream all along", and also sort of emphasize the way I've been living for a while. I don't know about a crash but I have thought about it. Thanks!

>>12230203
I'll simplify some of the imagery. I like that you got rid of >had in the phrase you changed. I'm pretty bad about overusing possessives and passive voice. Thanks!

[Anonymous No.12230509]

>>12230403
Ok, here's the latest thing I'm playing around with

The ceiling is closing in, the ciel
Sealed on itself, the real
Reeled on my rod, the kill
Cooled in the dirt, the spiel:

Quartets in quantal incarnation,
Inelegiac intonation -
As in and of ananaccordance,
A sort of kind of senesonance.

And yeah we wrap ourselves in NASA blankets,
Eating our spaceman rations,
Sloughing skins


Thinking in lense of glassy surface,
Reflection, only reflection, thinking.
Polygon boxes subdivided,
We so-called living things.

[Anonymous No.12230527]

>>12230509
What in the fuck are you doing? Are these supposed to be rap lyrics?

I wrote a thing and then thought
Thot she is hot but not
Negation or negatively brought
Letters listed lyrically like lines
Poetry do not compromise
Comprise instead interstitial dead
Defend this desultory method
Method end beyond the mend this style
Wrote without hesitation
Because i didnt even think
Linking incantations
sequential seconds

And yeah,
What does it all mean brooo?
Pass the bong dude!

[Anonymous No.12230532]

>>12228698
That is fucking nice

[Anonymous No.12230534]

>>12230509
Honestly, I think you're overdoing it a bit. The first stanza's rhyming pattern feels very gimmicky, the second stanza is a bit of verbal diarrhea. The last two stanzas are better as you actually build an image and play around it.

Just started on this today. There shall be more at a later date.

Tangled in the grass where she sleeps
Myriad cherry blossoms scatter
Bloom and then bliss
That was promised
Delivered by the brightest star in the sky
To glory
To death
And beyond

Strewn across the depths of Leyte
Where hope is measured in tonnage
And outweighed by a dream
To be promised
Delivered by collective psychosis
To progress
To success
And beyond

Half-buried in frigid powder
Frozen corpses decorate the landscape
Promising a brighter future
Delivered by Gaia
To shame
To reparations
And beyond

[Poet No.12230561]

The world is not so changed
From what it was in Ages gone
True, each one's nicely named,
With traits and even paragon

And each a lovely chapter claims
In histories so long
Record the rise and fall it made
With dates to go along

But here's an odd predicament:
For all supposed differences
All told their whole disjointedness
Consists in marks on pages drawn

In fact it is the same old stuff
A little rearranged
The cloud, the drop, or icey bluff
Are all by water named

Just ask our clever physicists
For Matter is Conserved
So I suppose our businesses
Lose every dime they earn
And every treated sickness is
Checked by death uncured
A universe as big as this
All aspirations blur
All progress has its weaknesses
In decadence deferred
The endless stars aren't witnesses
To human life on earth
For all our gaudy progresses
We've nothing more of worth

Still this truth I dont entrust
The present world to gain
For this one's rather curious
Different is its same

Not the first world to have erred
(Many had it mostly wrong)
First although to have declared
It was different all along

[Anonymous No.12230567]

>>12230534
Yeah, it's a draft for expansion. One thing I've found important in editing is to remember that I'm not Queneau - there's no point in putting shit where it can't reasonably be seen. Personally, I find it's easiest to cut a little loose at the start then home in on the idea that appears out of the editing.

Is yours meant as a WWII poem? It's rough on the imagery but a good start - the hope/dream bit in the second part is a good encapsulation of the way we tend to see historical naval warfare.

>>12230527
If that triggers you so much, I can't imagine how constipated your verse must be.

[Anonymous No.12230574]

>>12230567
Hey frat boy
>>12230561
Thats me youve been talking to

[Anonymous No.12230617]

>>12230574
Not too bad, Mr Poet - very English, but I have a soft spot for that mannered mid-Century vibe.

In between drinking games, though, I did write my thesis on Heidegger - so I have high standards for poets who hope to say something about human finitude.

[Anonymous No.12230625]

>>12230567
Agree with you on that. I also tend to start on a tangent before finding what it's about. Yeah, I intended to write about Anne Frank there but ended up writing about Japan, America, and Germany in WW2. Yeah, I should think up an image to link the scenes together.

[Anonymous No.12230644]

>>12230617
Yes I recall you saying you enjoy the "old fashioned" although it seems the sense in which you intended it was rather distinct, "of campus pride."

There is no way for me to communicate to you how embarassed you should be by the Heidegger line so I will not try.

The poem is not about human finitude. I wont explain it to you, if you care to figure it out it should be clear.

[Anonymous No.12230674]

>>12230644
I was trying to be charitable by finding some interesting philosophical point in it. But yeah, very deep stuff about the universe, brah

[Anonymous No.12230688]

How do you guys get started writing short stories? I have all these ideas but I can't ever get further in than a couple sentences before I lose steam

[Anonymous No.12230693]

>>12230688
I like to just imagine I’m sort of writing a storyboard that’ll be filled in by the actors and director... then I go back and fill it in

[Anonymous No.12230713]

>>12228698
either rhyme or don't

[Anonymous No.12230718]

>>12230113
>I sat in the rear middle seat where I saw that oblong, passenger nose-angle you get back there

what?

>As they passed my window, the trees and sky stretched out as if someone had over enlarged a blurred image of a forest and recursively superimposed it over itself. Nothing happened for a while.

again, what? I don't understand what you're talking about

>His one long eye flickered a siren song.

DUDE WHAT? I stopped reading here. Write more clearly

[Anonymous No.12230724]

>>12230509
ooh mama! nice volta at the end.

but frankly I think that poems, like people, shouldn't talk too much about themselves, at least not when they have so little time! and your stanza 2 is guilty of that... despite the crazy good stuff you're doing... it sounds great, but the meaning isn't there

[Anonymous No.12230728]

>>12230674

Its about history, not the universe. Impending death and the cosmological smallness of man, while easily stated as such, are perennial themes in poetry. They form perhaps the more dominating facts of human life. Your can modulate your dislike of me onto them if you wish but they are not my observations or my facts.

Have some respect. Dont be so fragile.

[Anonymous No.12230731]

>>12230688
just keep going along. If you're really stuck, write it as if you were telling it to somebody, in person. that should trim a lot of the boring details away

[Anonymous No.12230753]

>>12230728
Ok, I misjudged you the second time - but you also misjudged Heidegger. Historicity and temporality are inseparable from finitude, and finitude is the overwhelming quality of temporality which impresses itself on individual lives. You’re still staying a little too aloof and theoretical to really get a point across - look at how Eliot, when he talks about something like time, always dips back into concrete human life.

[Anonymous No.12230762]

https://pastebin.com/raw/6imKs1V8

"Jewish Fiction"

please tell me when it gets boring, what stands out to you as the worst thing about it, what's stopping you from having a good time...

Also tell me if the general conceit (Jewish guy's adventures in a timeless eastern country) is just irredeemably offensive, disrespectful, tonedeaf... anything.

Thank you.

[Anonymous No.12230782]

>>12230724
Cheers man. I think you’re right about the over-reflexivity in that second stanza - I work in BigTech now, and I’m always trying to figure out how to capture the sheer sound and fury of life in the industry. But using smart-sounding nonsense to talk about smart-sounding nonsense is a little too literal...

[Anonymous No.12230783]

>>12230753
>>12230728
hey po(e)theads, care to take a break from the high theorizing and try out some prose? --> >>12230762

come on in, the water's fine...

[Anonymous No.12230790]

>>12230753
Someday you will realize that youre standing around naked, and that others can see you. It will probably have to happen in person but it will be a good lesson for you.

This poem has nothing to say about Heidegger, nor do I, because Ive never studied him. How can I "misjudge" him? You dropped his name because you wanted to reassure yourself you were wise when you couldnt find an obvious mistake in that poem. Is it so hard to imagine? Someone in a 4chan tgread might surpass your writing ability? Do you think writing ability is something your born with or without? It comes only by way of great effort. How much effort have you put in?

I probably put 5 or 6 hours into that poem, no joke.

Some anon posted an Emily Dickinson poem a few days ago and its been on my mind so much I had to find my own little way of repeating some of the ideas I managed to get out of it.

TS Eliot is very difficult. I expect it will he years before I can apprehend him, or how he relates "something like time" to "concrete human life." And I will probably never be such a master of him I can toss out comparisons of his work to amateurs.

[Anonymous No.12230791]

>>12230782
a poet in bigtech... weird contrast. Can you look at the pastebin story I posted up there? I know I've asked several times at this point... but I do want punishment. I know it will hurt, I'm ready for it

[Anonymous No.12230795]

>>12230783
Prose needs polishing, but that comes with time. You should read Joseph Roth, particularly his travel writing - there’s a collection available called The Hotel Years

[Anonymous No.12230814]

>>12230795
you overestimate me. Tell me more about the polishing... it's a little self indulgent and overwritten, isn't it? I think I started it as more of a comedy story. I need to pare things away, don't I? Can you be a little more precise?

I added the book to my dropbox, and it's on my list, after some works by thomas mann. I can't promise I'll read anything, but I'll try

[Anonymous No.12230823]

>>12230762

I read chapter 1 and I dont feel like reading chapter two. There arent any obviously offensive sentences, things flow alright but Im not at all interested in what your saying which comes across as disjointed observations.

If you want to write this way please give the reader something more concrete here and there so he isnt regretting openning the link.

[Anonymous No.12230833]

>>12230762
Also thanks for posting this because i realize my last prose piece has exactly the same problem.

I immediately start going on about some old man and his breakfast and what he thinks of the sunrise, and nobody knows who he is or where his so cant possibly care.

God writing is do fucking difficult

[Anonymous No.12230836]

>>12230790
Everyone thinks they’re naked - the real lesson is that nobody fucking cares, or even notices. Angry /lit/izens are a dime a dozen, bro. I assumed your poem was supposed to be more than tight graph-paper devices, so I tried to connect it to the issues it raises in the philosophical tradition.

>>12230791
Yeah man, that was me posting to recommend Joseph Roth (I’d also suggest Zweig). You’re writing in a great but little-read tradition. As far as the poet in big tech thing goes, you’d be surprised - I got a lot of good shit because one of my bosses was an ardent poet and I edited his stuff. Personally, I think poetry is the only medium that really captures quite how fucking weird Silicon Valley life is... Even Pynchon wouldn’t quite get it right in prose.

[Anonymous No.12230860]

>>12230823
you're absolutely right, there isn't enough concrete action in that first chapter... it's just a bunch of vague internal things which aren't even that "real"... I'm very embarrassed now—nevertheless, it was necessary.

Also, I think that in my stories (and maybe in yours), we start out with a bunch of lousy garbage, then eventually we find our footing and things improve a little bit. I can't think of the exact case, but I had the same problem with another story...

>>12230833
Zweig... say less cuz. I've been trying to plow through the world of yesterday for so long and it's soooo boring! What tradition are you talking about?

[Anonymous No.12230861]

>>12230693
>>12230731
Thanks anons! I think putting things together from a wider perspective was all I really needed.

[Anonymous No.12230915]

>>12230836
>Everyone thinks they’re naked - the real lesson is that nobody fucking cares, or even notices.

Temper it first: all of us are on 4chan, nobody cares that much. But still some care more than others. It is a frustrating place, when you can tell you care more, that these things are games for others. And half the cards are up and half are down.

I am only ever getting angry with people here for inflating their apprehension of all things lit. I try hard to keep an honest mouth, and it makes me no friends, nor brings me any joy.

And I find this the case with people in real life. Everyone hashing slogans, watching podcasts with Joe Rogan, I dropped out of school years ago, and even then the kids would flex. Undergrads dropping names pike Foucault on the first day of class, its just astonishing and pointless and such a terrible barrier to learning anything at all.

I dunno, I dont find it so hard to keep myself honest. I know one person, a brother in law, with whom I enjoy discussing ideas. One. And even then he had a nasty habit of talking too much. Maybe thats how people feel about me.

[Anonymous No.12231040]

>>12230915
I mean nobody cares irl - hence how someone can go from /fit/autist to fratstar.

The only people who are ever gonna be honest with you are the drunk and the doomed, bro. I wish I had world enough and time to get into every aspect of things /lit/, but until then I’ll settle for what I’ve got.

[Anonymous No.12231057]

>>12231040
But dude were gonna die, and before that have all the things we love and enjoy gradually pried from our hands. Shouldnt we face up to that?

I mean sure, a cool girlfriend and a tenth floor apartment in the city with a good gaggle of friends and a job starting at 50k a year will get you through your 20s without having to worry about that, and a wife and some kids till your 50, if youre not some kind emotional manchild incapable of devoting yourself to your own flesh and blood, but thats a lot of ifs. Alternatively you could develop alcoholism or schizophrenia, or have a rare form of cancer at an early age, or lose control of your limbs in a snowboarding accident. God forbidding that you may just end up vaguely depressed at the age of 50, your youth expiring and your children forgetting to call you, I dunno.

I just thought maybe others would like to get to the bottom of it. Poetry has kind of done a bit of that. A little bit.

[Anonymous No.12231058]

>>12228221
Cringe

[Anonymous No.12231217]

Its not a 200IQ poem about depression with fancy words, but I had fun writing it. I wanted to express a certain feeling or idea in this short story

https://pastebin.com/P3VsKw8t

Im not a native english speaker,but this shouldnt be a problem.

[Anonymous No.12231596]

>>12228698
Have you tried formatting this like a proper poem? It's a nice read, might try line breaks just to see how you like it.

[Anonymous No.12231612]

>>12228698
Juvenile.
I can tell you've just started writing. Keep at it, though

ESL?

[Anonymous No.12231754]

[Anonymous No.12232570]

>>12231754
"no"

[Anonymous No.12233902]

>>12229927
I had to think about it for a sec before I got it, but I don't think that's a bad thing. I like poetry that if you only glance at it it seems meaningless and reads uncomfortably; but after you've learned what it means it gets a meaning and it reads with a good flow.

Is the intention that the parents have a rocky or unfeeling relationship?