Crit my poem /lit/. Also general crit thread

[Anonymous No.15184871]

as sunlight graces mountaintops
and casts across the sky
and peers through leaves to kiss the ground
so too i meet your eye

lean down from that high splend'rous seat
yet unmoved there you stay
possess your boldest lover still
who falls for you this day

grant me that fierce abandonment
that throws me to my rest
and paint me clawing, bloodied, spent
so clutch me to your breast

show me that ladder stretching high
that banishes my fear
and mightily instills in me
my love for sweet sophia

(Note for plebs Sophia means wisdom in geek). How far is this from being good enough for the quarterly? Pic unrelated

[Anonymous No.15185034]

Bump

[Anonymous No.15185397]

>>15184871
hey not bad desu

[Anonymous No.15185405]

>>15184871
>i
Stop doing this faggotry. Write like a man.

[Anonymous No.15185954]

alright, wrote these two just now because I can't fall asleep

[Anonymous No.15186167]

>>15185954
Shite

[Anonymous No.15186756]

Bump

[Anonymous No.15186794]

OP here, please critique my second poem:

ME LIKE TO HAVE HOMOSEXUAL INTERCOURSE
WITH GIANT PULSATING PENIS OF COURSE
UNTIL IT SPLATTER MY GUYS WITH SEMEN
IN CONCLUSION I LIKE MEN AND NOT WEMEN

[Anonymous No.15186802]

OP here, please critique my second poem:

ME LIKE TO HAVE HOMOSEXUAL INTERCOURSE
WITH GIANT PULSATING PENIS OF COURSE
UNTIL IT SPLATTER MY GUTS WITH SEMEN
IN CONCLUSION I LIKE MEN AND NOT WEMEN

[Anonymous No.15186926]

>>15185405
Not op
Do you mean omit the "I" narration, or just capitalize the letter?

[Anonymous No.15186934]

>>15184871
the nature images come off as cliche but i really liked "grant me that fierce abandonment"

[Anonymous No.15186943]

Apple Tree

Your dreams were as thin as you
I can't be that happy I'd be thick.
Yet you still give me blissful smiles
and act like family.
I want to throw you in a well.
So we are family.

Your positivity is naivity but it's
too precious for me. You give me flowers
with your voice, that makes me feel sick.
I cannot help but accept them.
Why do you do this to me?
So I get side swept by life?
That my bones are left scattered on a field
centuries until they are buried?

The apple tree produces fruit that shines like a
uniformed boot.
The apples rot.
The boot stamps.
Does that ever occur to you when picking fruit?
You enjoy the taste defiantly?
That I can't help but take your blessing
as a curse.
Pick weeds not apples so your
hands are as rough as mine. So you can't
bite on a reward.
Then you'll see it through my lens and it's black
and white. When I give you the signalling
kiss in front of men.
Know that I shut my eyes to not
see you hung on a tree producing no fruit.
It's not right.

[Anonymous No.15187456]

>>15185954
Incredibly noticeable that this was not written by a native bonglander

[Anonymous No.15187555]

Fever dreams and unseemly imaginings mark his waking dreams; unscrupulous deeds resonate as echoes among the caverns of thought amid the twilight of the soul. He lives with the madness, cherishes it near and coddles it to his breast. A sliver of himself remains, acquiescent to the fragmentation of what was once a man. Birds sing and the universe tumbles relentless in its course and somewhere a child cries out for a final time. It is night now.

Half remembered nightmares slough off him like a seal shedding water, the sweat drenches the mattress below him and the candle has long since guttered out. He gulps stagnant water from a dirty glass and fumbles for his pocket watch before remembering there's no light. By memory and trial he makes his way to the lone window, cracking the seal of stink and letting the misty wanderings of the night into his tenement. The moonlight is pale and mingles with the brassy copper of streetlamps, their flickering glow bathing the city in a sea of flames. Snorting to himself he snorts a line of powder from a flask that never leaves his pocket and fumbles for the matches -- it is time to leave.

The hour of midnight has long since passed and time flows unevenly throughout the city. Public bath houses are closing their doors even to the wandering drunks and constables will hand out more than a simple beating for loitering. He thinks that there's something distinctly American about the way the rich dwell in their lofty towers, a godly presence to lord over the common and the destitute. His destination rests outside the main city limits and he's almost eager as he scuttles to and fro the cobbled alleys like some unholy insect.

He likes to reminisce on these midnight jaunts through streets that only faintly smell of shit. About the night he met her, about the first few dreamlike visitations upon which he balanced the fate of his manhood and his self worth. A woman -- nay a girl naught half his age, a scrawny scrap of a thing all dressed in expensive nightsilks and carrying a lone candle against the darkness. She'd thought him the butler, rummaging in the manor's cellar and had called out in a wispy voice of pure innocence: "Fernando, estalo alli?" He'd frozen, icewater for blood and the frozen permafrost for skin. He imagined he could feel the bite of the moonbeam drifting in through cloudy cellar windows and the burn of that revelatory gaze upon his sinner's flesh. For the faintest drafting passage of a heartbeat he breathed in indecision, his flesh trembling and indecisive. Then, like the sign from some deity on high a wind had blown the door ajar, ruffling her nightgown and exposing iridescent flesh beneath, as pale as the alabaster moon.

He'd sprung at her then, taking her in hand and pinioning her against the rough wooden boards that formed the wall. His hand clamped tightly over her mouth but no scream escaped, and no bite found his already scored flesh.

[Anonymous No.15187567]

>>15187555
Instead she gasped in purest surprise and nearly melted in his arms! He was so startled he nearly put her down and apologized then and there! Yet, the whole incident had made nary a noise and the silent body of the night was still unadulterated. With one hand remaining over her mouth he'd roughly slid his palm under her gown and against her chest feeling the beat of that fragile bird's heart beneath his fingers.

He came back to himself on Goldsmith street, the chimney's of the wealthy silent as the proverbial grave. Some houses held private security and he could feel eyes in the darkness, ever watching ever seeking. Yet he was not after their silverware nor their fancy silks so they let him pass. He was a shadow among shadows, a droplet of liquor amid a torrential downpour. None challenged him.

The second time he'd visited her she'd not waited but leapt into his arms, the heady smell of her feather-light frame intoxicating to his nostrils. He knew not her name nor her his, yet they laid there beneath the autumn moon and cradled one another beneath the infinite sea of starlight. He'd been gone before dawn with her blossom tucked beneath his many cloaks and his seed dripping from between her thighs.

He'd killed a man after that and had to leave town for a time, his days spent huddled in wine cellars and beneath dusty, attic boards. By the time he made it back to the city she'd grown significantly, her girlish frame giving way to the distinctive budding of the bodily springtime. She'd not questioned his absence and indeed didn't say a word, simply taking him into her arms as if nothing had changed.

[Anonymous No.15187850]

>>15187567
>>15187555
Jesu I'll need to rinse my brain after reading this

[Anonymous No.15188030]

>>15187555
>>15187567
This is the very definition of purple prose. To the extent that I am lost in so many colourful descriptions I have to re-read sentences twice over to actually get the mise en scene of what you have actually said. Colour is fine, but buckets of flowery vomit don't do anything except occlude what you are trying to say. I recall the opening of Crime and Punishment from the actual goings-on in the excerpt, and I think you should read it and compare with yours. This whole thing is very, very dense and it needn't be. In fact it is so dense that it divorces itself from any kind of reality, be it first or third person abstracted. It's almost as though you are trying to trick me into thinking it's good because you use obscure language.
You have potential, but you need to chop down the thickness. Try writing some flash fiction in your spare time.

I'd critique someone else but I'm not very deep into poetry, so I'd be unqualified.

Pic related is mine, crit anybody?

[Anonymous No.15188061]

>>15188030
Oh, and it's an old draft. The newest one has been submitted already and I am too lazy to go downstairs onto the computer I write on to grab a screenshot of the latest edit. Please forgive whatever spelling mistakes and grammatical errors I left in it.

[Anonymous No.15189174]

all of the poetry in this thread needs to be tossed out. it’s entirely unsalvageable and the people writing it need to read more.

>>15188030
(I’m on mobile)
This begins shakily. Develop the exterior, the scene, if you’re going to tell us it’s quiet. I get that it’s supposed to be interior, but I can’t buy that the narrator would find the street quiet if some guy has been yelling. Drop the dad comparison—far too early to be telling us that sort of thing. I wonder if you feel as though you can get away with some glossing description rather than evoking a scene. Additionally, you need to riff on what you have. Complaining about drinking, society, juices, etc already feels old to me. These are worn subjects that can still be broached, but must be taken further if so. This kind of self-conscious / degrading narrator is popular right now, so extending the voice through the character’s own perceptive logic must be knit-tight in every line. I think the last paragraph is your best (esp the second half of it) and does that kind of singular description well.

[Anonymous No.15189288]

>>15189174
Thanks for the notes. I would agree more with you suggesting I develop the scene more, without context that would definitely be the case, but the last paragraph does just that. I have taken your words altogether on board, good criticism, thank you.

[Anonymous No.15189357]

>>15189288
I meant to say the former paragraph i.e the one leading into this excerpt, I should really go to bed.

[Anonymous No.15189361]

>>15186926
Capitalize the letter.

[Anonymous No.15189619]

i really like how this turned out

[Anonymous No.15190706]

He was sitting at a table, drinking a cocktail. She came over, sat down and said nothing. He glanced over her shoulder. Her friends were watching. No sign of Clari. She probably went out once, maybe twice a week, and to different clubs. Not just this one, every night, alone, like he did.
'May I?' She nodded at his drink.
He slid it over. 'Go for it.'
She had a sip. 'I'm Elle.'
'Austin.'
'Pleasure.' She slid it back.
He shook his head and stood up. 'That one's yours.'
'Thanks,' she said. 'But do you have anything else?'
Ah, he thought. 'Sorry, not sure what you mean.'
'I think you do. I can see it in your eyes.'
'My eyes?'
'Your pupils.'
He laughed and walked off. At the bar, he looked back at her. Blonde, bright eyes. Twenty, he guessed. Waiting for him. She flipped off her friends, who were trying to make her laugh. He brought over two of the same and sat beside her. It was time for another line. He chopped one out and rolled up a twenty.
She leaned close so they were touching. 'Is that for me?'
He looked at her, held her gaze and gave her the note. 'Enjoy.'

>will crit for crit

[Anonymous No.15190730]

>been planning a novel for the past year and a half
>a few chapters into the first draft now
>started to realise that the narrator-protagonist not only has no way to show he has learned anything from the story's events by the end of it, but he is also indirectly responsible for the deaths of two of his best friends in the story through negligence
>this story is meant to end on a positive if bittersweet note as he finally escapes his drug addiction
How the fuck do I fix this? As it stands I feel like giving the ending any trace of optimism will be emotionally dishonest as it's not earned, but I don't want it to be a angst/gloom-fest from start to finish because (aside from the story being worth reading) otherwise why would the narrator-protagonist be bothering to narrating such events? There's no reason for such a story.

[Anonymous No.15191137]

https://pastebin.com/u3BHPhYa

Please crit this

[Anonymous No.15191714]

all of the poetry in this thread needs to be tossed out. it’s entirely unsalvageable and the people writing it need to read more.

[Anonymous No.15191734]

>>15185954
wow this could really get published with the right proofreader

[Anonymous No.15191744]

>>15189619
thank god someone saved this

[Anonymous No.15191772]

>>15191714
Ikr? It always amazes me how terrible the writing is from people who have a genuine interest in it

[Anonymous No.15191801]

>>15184871
I dont really do much poetry, most just prose, but I thought I would give it a shot for the sake of this thread.

"Penelope"
I walk everyday to the salty pier
look on towards a barren sea
and hope to find it sailing here
a ship that should come back to me

you left for war with crew of men
had the women and children stay
you kissed me on the forehead then
and told me you'll be back one day

I tended to your son, your pride
watched him grow from boy to man
and he waits as well, for you to ride
upon the western seas again

but until that day I will see
that your home shall still remain with us
as you travel round the wine dark sea
to find your native Ithaca

[Anonymous No.15191811]

>>15184871
pretty gay desu

[Anonymous No.15191848]

>>15191734
you like em?

[Anonymous No.15192451]

>>15185954
>>15191734
absolutely not publishable, lol. the gulf between titles and poems is frustrating. the hyper-referential, pop-culture titles leading into serious, if not maudlin poems, is a move that's been jarred and sealed since 2010 with the death of the alt-lit scene. your voice in these poems has a weariness that is meant to sound exhausted, but instead seems cloying. part of the issue here is that these poems are remarkably corny. the ABAB rhyme scheme in the second poem, is saccharine in what is supposed to be drolly ironic. additionally, the title suggest transmutation or at least masks and acting, but then the poem leads "the man on the moon" on a journey downwards. i hate the cliched british language in the first title; i hate the reliance on a Trivia Night amount of pop culture in the second. to end up with humorless verses out of this might be the most narcissistic kind of poetry there is, even more so than rupi kaur.

my advice is to explore and actually add your voice and muddle the language. you at least have some direction, but right now this is entirely imitative and derivative.

[Anonymous No.15192763]

>>15192451
all fair points mate, but the titles are completely meaningless, I just put them there for a laugh

[Anonymous No.15192961]

>>15192763
consider the fact that no one laughed

[Anonymous No.15193024]

>>15192961
I did so I'm not bothered