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13535731 No.13535731 [Reply] [Original]

I just wrote my fist poem bros.
What was your first piece of writing like? What can I expect from now on?

>> No.13535750

>>13535731
Everyones first piece of writing is shit, but with most writing it has something of value under the shit. The next thing you write will have slightly less shit, but only if you can look at the last one and realize what made it so shit.

Good luck, I hope you can recognize what makes your poem so shit and what that piece of value is. Be careful not to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

>> No.13535875

>>13535731
I was required to compose five poems throughout my ENGL 363 course circa 2009. I am cringing to death right now but here they are:
1/5
Southern Face

Upon some disappearing land
The Compson house will ever stand:
A flag that flaps above the green.
Yet not a boy felt nature’s hand,

Creeping along the path, serene,
To church and crop, against which lean
The mem’ries of the slaves of Ben
Who’ve broken from the state machine.

The sky might set a deep red when
His Ages drown in nineteen-ten;
A tragic fall of time, this case:
The South has left the minds of men,

That is, until they meet the pace
Of Northern Pride and Southern Face,
And history we will not chase
Until it’s in its ordered place.

>> No.13535878

2/5
The Strife

I watch you fall along a breeze with leaves
Sprayed from the charged and brittle trees with ease;
Let wind and will of those you choose to please
Upend, suspend the trip you planned for seas.

But how would you above the seas contend
To not, not once, just fight until the end
To see at least the wasted place you spend
The last of precious time just to pretend?

Decipher peace from only time and place.
Acknowledge that right here and now the race
Will go to those who fight to make a case
Against the want, the will, the fate of space.

But you and I always prefer the strife:
Always to live – just to escape this life.

>> No.13535887

3/5
The Earth Worm

Hanging in a pale, milky forest
Is a blue and green apple
Resting chaotically in the sun.

Very ripe, ideal and pleasing on the surface;
Sought-after and fought-for;
But secretly conquered long ago:

From a carved and curving blue-green apple-mine,
A satisfied earthworm
Makes his exit.

>> No.13535894

Fourth poem is missing from my folder. Sorry.
5/5
Our Way of Life: in Memoriam

Our way of life is over in every single sense
As from our noble consciousness
The art of truth is cleansed.

We trade, instead, for untruth – for fantasy and fame –
And give away the last, for what
Our founding fathers came.

But much unlike a death wake, we can’t even recall
The things we haven’t held on to
That could preclude our fall.

And yet the good times roll, oblivious and numb,
Down the muddy progress-slopes
Into the Black Hole Sun.

But now I ramble too long, and I can not be late
To the next fictitious game
In which I’ll find escape

From previous distractions that aren’t enough for me,
Since anyone who’s anything
Has appeared to break free.

If anyone can still hear me, I ask you to take pause
And look at life, and truth, and art
Which died of nat’ral cause.

Our way of life is over in almost every sense:
The nat’ral cause has spared the thing
From Which our life commenced.

>> No.13535935

>>13535894
don't cringe too hard, not bad

the first two have nice rhythm

>> No.13535943

>The mem’ries of the slaves of Ben
>Who’ve broken from the state machine.

That's funny, in an ironic way. The Earth Worm has that same sense of humor as well.

>> No.13535948

>>13535943
kinda funny*

>> No.13535984

>>13535935
thanks
>>13535943
It's not Ben Franklin either...it was right after I read The Sound and the Fury for the first time. The Earth Worm was inspired by my exploration of the globalist conspiracy theories of the mid-2000s.So...yes, cringe.

>> No.13536070

I just started to try to write some poetry a couple weeks ago, after trying to write songs for a couple years and stagnating. Here's one:

Cornhusk Angel


I remember that bird.
The one the cat drug in,
its feathers mishevled by those final moments
of bald bottomless fear.

I remember the blood that sat on
Kitee's fur, all moist and pulsing
alive, shining like the watch your
parents bought you when you turned
13.

That watch still sits on your dresser.
It's fallen out of sync-- with the
weight of many years clinging to
its silver arms.
It's all dusty.
Not like the blood.
Not fresh like the blood.

Kitee dropped the bird at the door. You
couldn't leave and ran to the bathroom
sobbing.
Mommy coaxed quietly from the hall.
Daddy grabbed his work gloves, dusty too, and tossed the bird on top of the empty diet coke boxes & onion skins and corn husks and bag after bag after bag of cherry pits.
Mom loved cherries in the summer.

You stained your T-shirt with them once. And the bedspread.
Deep, dark, heart of a lover red.
Heart of an angel.

>> No.13536081

>>13536070
it's pretty anon

>> No.13536120

Everyday, two paths before me
one is known
enticing,
with power, direction, death.

Everyday I chose
the one with no clear path
that leads to heart break and
loneliness

One day I will choose,
the one which I pass by,
everyday

>> No.13537123

>>13536070
:)

>> No.13538311

>>13535894
>this blackpilled circa 2009
Not bad anon. I usually enjoy the riddle-like nature of poetry as a window to the soul, but this was fairly overt and empathetic.

Has your perspective changed since then?

>> No.13538825

>>13536070
i actually really like this

>> No.13538914

It just gets better from here, Anon. You can look forward to years or sequestering yourself away from loved ones and life experiences just so you can create an internal fantasy world to pass down to the next generation.

And this will always be your second job.

>> No.13538932

>>13535894
>>13535878
>>13535875
>>13536120
OP here, I like these but mine isn't nearly as well written as them, though I did my best.
>>13535750
yeah I was thinking it was sounding too much like a riddle and not a poem.
>>13538914
>And this will always be your second job
thank god. I just don't understand people who want to turn their passion into work. I love working on cars but working as a mechanic would be hell.

>> No.13538970

We'll turn a crop of boys into girls,
Cut them young, oh what a world,
We'll make.

Hordes of eager little whores,
Watch the niggers fuck them raw,
Pluck a few while they're still pure,
Use them up 'til they're no more,
We've got the cash we'll just buy more!

>> No.13539067

>>13535731

That is the best Gif I have ever seen.

>> No.13539430

>>13538311
It's become even more pessimistic. Rereading these poems for the first time in almost a decade, I was fairly surprised how unpleasant my perspective was at that time. My current pessimism seems like a recent phenomenon, but I guess it existed earlier.