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/lit/ - Literature

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16680004 No.16680004 [Reply] [Original]

Post a poem and rate others!

Be nice, this went well the last time.

>> No.16680016

My soles
The ground
Each stomp
Propelling me
To another
I use my heels
As brass knuckles
Beating up
the cheeks
Of the asphalt.
There are cracks
There is someone

>> No.16680018


>> No.16680037

Not gonna lie, this was pretty fun.

>> No.16680046

Something I wrote a while ago. Not a big poetry guy as I'm sure you can tell

When things get out of order,
As they often do,
I'll try to write a poem
And make myself some brain stew.

Meaning is not mandatory,
Neither isn't pace.
Unless it's supposed to be oratory
And you're trying to save face.

You can scribble down some nonsense
And disguise it as great art.
Thank goodness most only remember the last line,
And about the first, noone gives a fart.

You can be clever and silly,
And funny or sinister.
Just know that those who call themselves Billy,
Tend to prefer someone earnest for minister.

Poems are fun,
More so if they're stupid.
So make like a gun
And hit some like Cupid.

>> No.16680049

Out beyond the edge of reason
Lies a break between what we see
And the lure of logic's treason;
The divide is eternity.
Creeping doubt bemuses the mind
Of both believer and skeptic,
Neither sure of what they find
Wandering the dialectic.
Reality's discrepancy
Is a recent fascination;
Those before kept their deities
Close, they lived in dedication
Through story, song and sacrifice;
The animals, their pantheon --
The rolling land, their paradise.
Each day, the golden rays of dawn
Illuminate salvation to
People whose man-made gods are gone.

>> No.16680057
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>> No.16680116

Its a fun little poem. Nothing earth shattering, but if it were in a collection, I would read one or two more of your poems

>> No.16680166


>> No.16680214

I usually hate these shaped poems, but this incredible

>> No.16680294

I am more of a prose writer, but here I go:

I stood in the crowd, looking up at the man.
His face was calm, his body composed.
And I could not help but wonder
What thoughts he then held.

Where did his mind go?
Perhaps to wife and child?
Or what if he still has a debt
that recently grew tenfold?

Perhaps he was afraid,
But I cannot say for sure;
He looked unfazed,
As if things could get worse.

His opposition addressed us,
Telling us the news:
That the man standing there
Was bound to lose.

He said, "Say your prayers,
There is no hope for you yet.
You will not emerge unscathed from this,
Your fate is now set.

And then the man fell,
And there was the crack.
But he did not thrash,
his body went slack.

>> No.16680444

I like it, I think it loses a little bit of steam with the Billy line, but overall it's good fun.

>> No.16680445

Based and faithpilled

>> No.16680680

Prudent dupe, I confess my sins again,
The same ones I confessed just yesterday.
I've found myself unable to abstain
From vices I deride; I disobey
All I've written of life, for through my vice,
I'll eat, laugh, and survive my finite time.
And who can lead my soul to paradise?
Who possesses virtue so sublime
That they embrace the Word, deny the bread?
Certainly not you! You only remind
Of flaws and limits set in humankind,
Believing absolution's in what's said.
To agree is to let transgression slide;
To demur is to laud a moral pride.

>> No.16680900

Most of our lives are robotic
Another day went away
It’s almost chronic
We do what's said,
We feel what’s said
All the things we are fed
We question them too late

This life has no meaning
It’s a canvas dipped in white paint of
The Absurd
Like Camus said in myth of sisyphus
“We must assume sisyphus to be happy”
What if it was the opposite?
We just went with the positive

I feel it’s unfair to be so skeptical
I don’t know if there is a god or not
I don’t see him to be at rest
What I see is nature
What I admire is the mind
We have been given the gift of creation
It can be our way to show appreciation

This life has no meaning
It’s a canvas dipped in white paint of
The Absurd
We add the colour
The life has no meaning
We give it one.

>> No.16680930

>Be me
Why would I like it?
Sadness in my gray face
No romance, which lies in childhood
>it is sad
It has always been like that
>an hero
Too much dopamine from all this

>> No.16680942

Graphic sounds retreating into empty vices
The lost boys lay waste to their weathered dreams
Friends are merry yet their wounds will not be mended
In times long lost we were once whole
Forever now we’ll stare at the shards of those dreams and wonder
Whose dreams they actually were and whose they will be
I hope someone can pick them up and put the pieces back together

>> No.16680957

he century was well along
when I came in
and now that it's ending,
I realize it won't
be long.
But couldn't it all have been
a little nicer,
as my mother'd say. Did it
have to kill everything in
did right always have to beso wrong?
I know this body is impatient.
I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind.
Yet I loved, I love.
I want no sentimentality.
I want no more than home.

>> No.16681003
File: 139 KB, 1440x2200, 123242813_365388224779347_7584479919387625976_n.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Here's another one of mine (the guy who had the super surreal poem). I couldn't come up with a title, so I used the first line as the title. Any suggestions would be great!

>> No.16681022

this is good

>> No.16681054
File: 237 KB, 888x668, Screenshot_2018-12-09-08-14-31.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>> No.16681548

This is an excellent idea: the three poems which can be read individually, but combined into a greater whole, which reveals a whole new meaning. And even with no direct reference to Christ, the context of the middle poem is conveyed by it's shape.

It's therefore unfortunate that none of the poems are spectacular to read. Shorn of the greater context, each is a waffling, meandering mess of shallow imagery that fails to come together in a potent whole. I appreciate that taking it to the next level is a formidable endeavour and would be an enormous technical challenge, but without doing so, it's an interesting curio instead of a world class poem.

>> No.16681593

You're writing without meter and rhyme, which is always enormously challenging. You have to carry yourself with the beauty of your language and ideas alone.

Unfortunately, the poem fails on both counts. "His face was calm, his body composed" is excessively bland and uninspired. You would never introduce a character in a novel in so plain a fashion, that goes tenfold in poetry. I don't wonder what thoughts he holds, as the description you have given does not interest me in any way.

Bland language also infects the second stanza. There's little assonance, no rhyme, and no meter. Your images are also bland, as are the very ideas of the stanza. These are bland, idle thoughts that are often had about lots of people. There is nothing that makes this man exceptional.

The rest of the poem is struck by these same basic issues. It's not aggressively terrible, but there is nothing in it I can praise.

>> No.16681599

imagine a
world without
jews and niggers,
that would be
like a world
rats and

>> No.16681626

Many, many make an army
to LIQUADATE one you need many more
SHE makes eternal cities

>> No.16681628

no it isn’t, it’s forged in the company of silence
in the deniable aftermath of the inevitability of every sentience
shouting from my overheated sound card
and written on my forehead while i sleep
under unforgiving pricks of stars still withholding grudges
against me for playing with the fabric, quantifying something different
trying to scavenge a sense of purpose or refusing to accept
something more than what it meant to me
i can't sleep through all the screaming, epitaphs like
move on, or the obligatory you’ll find somebody
drowning in a quietly mulled pity from my plague of worthlessness
something i tried to build to protect me

>> No.16681639

Meter is shot, and I don't think it's a deliberate subversion, I think you just need to learn basic meter. You've got a nice basic grasp of assonance; I like "prudent dupe" and "confessed/yesterday." It therefore seems like you're trying to write in a classical style, but again, it's never going to work without meter. These issues are present throughout the entire poem.

I don't think the idea at the poem's heart is terrible, a rebuke of easy Christian moralizing (I assume) is fine. I guess then that my issue is that the poem is very literal. It lacks original imagery to evoke an emotional response, which cripples the poem, and ultimately leaves it feeling bland. Leveraging your assonance with proper meter and imagery could yield some nice results.

>> No.16681674

Lovely free oh lovely me
Walk the night inspire me
And crowded winds admire me
Ask my name
But I am I and me to me
I say to me the past is free
And with the winds to walk away
I turn and say
But just to me
Lovely free oh lovely me

>> No.16681729

It's a slant rhyme, goofball!

>> No.16681734


Thank you for taking the time to rate and I tend to agree with your criticism.

>> No.16681737

I don't hate the language ("Serene spring sunshine" comes together well, for example), but once again, your meter is wrecked, and I don't think it's deliberate. I don't understand why these threads don't include a link to a basic explanation of meter in the OP, because almost every original poem posted on /lit/ suffers from meter issues, despite that being an extremely introductory aspect of the art form.

There's some nice imagery here, though none as strong as the first two lines, and the whole idea of reverence for the word is nice. But it'll never be properly euphonic without you learning and using meter. Easy step to improve your work.

>> No.16681743


>> No.16681830

This is good, there are no simple issues. I think it comes down to critiquing meaning and effect. The freedom of walking at night and being inspired is fine, I've tried to write about that feeling too. But the next line doesn't add to this, and might even detract. What are "crowded winds?" I assume you want to make the comparison between the absence of people, and feeling of being crowded. Again, neat, I've done that too. But it's got nothing to do with the inspiration you were talking about a second ago, and it doesn't enhance the mood. "Admire me" also colours the speaker as a narcissist, which I don't think helps the total poem.

From there the meaning starts to fall apart. If the winds are admiring you in the present, what does that have to do with the past? It's a disconnect. And If you're walking away with the winds, ARE you free? I don't think the question is intentional.

Overall, it's pretty, euphonic, and largely devoid of metrical issues, but the overall meaning is unclear, which means there's little to take away, and it lacks emotional impact completely.

>> No.16681877

No worries, hope you get something out of it.

>> No.16681936

Could you identify where the meter is off?

>> No.16681957

what if i like
the way you look
when you are all alone?

what do i do?
i run to you
and then i turn to stone.

>> No.16682036

The symbols to the folly of an age
Are brought down in iconoclastic rage.
Accused of an anachronistic sin,
Their might no longer earns reverence in
The mad society that seeks to purge
The last remains of their ancestral scourge.
History's endless vacillations raise
The short-sighted tyrants people praise --
So switch the fool upon the pedestal
With one in line to the ephemeral
Virtue espoused today -- claim victory
Claim vindication, claim what history
Denied the cause, inscribe it on the fallen
Shards of stone and bronze. You, heroes -- call on
All your shambolic rebels to do what's right
Today, then shade tomorrow's sin from sight

>> No.16682037
File: 5 KB, 312x202, Poem.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Can someone help with poem. Not good with word. Hope for help.

>> No.16682044

Stepping outside,
I found on the ground
A decapitated head of a bird.

It must have been recent
For I did not see it
Stepping in the night before.

When I walked past
And gained new perspective;
It sort of looked like a rabbit.

>> No.16682063

"Written" is absolutely not an iamb when I read, and I have to struggle to make it one. Likewise, "I'll eat laugh and" is not iambic. "Paradise" must be stretched very hard. "Certainly" is not iambic. The final two lines are only iambic if you slur the "is" into the previous words.

>> No.16682070
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>>16682037 there's no need, bro

>> No.16682074

So are there certain words that you can't use when writing in iambig fagtamatur?

>> No.16682108

Or trimeter or tetrameter etc, yeah. Dactyls, like Joyce's "Malachi Mulligan" can't be used in iambic meter. You can break the meter to include them for effect, but you'd want to do so knowing fully what you were doing.

Other words, like "mortal" are not iambic, but can still fit the meter if placed after a weak stress (e.g., "of mortal or immortal minds" is iambic.)

>> No.16682109

I'm actually the one who asked about the meter, but similar question to >>16682074 accept ill ask it nicer. Are certain words just off limits for iambs?
Would this work better:
>All I write on life, for through my vice
For reference, I have also posted >>16682036, does this have the same problems?

>> No.16682132
File: 261 KB, 1440x1543, Screenshot_20201029-191400_Word_1.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Because you're obsessed with meter, here's an older poem of mine where I try to use multiple meters. It's not that good, but thought you'd enjoy someone from /lit/ that writes in meter.

>> No.16682172

Strict iambic tetrameter would be "I write on life, for through my vice." Four feet, alternating weak-strong weak-strong. Iambic pentamter, which that poem is closest to, uses five feet.

Your poem has similar issues. "Down in" is trochaic (long-short) not iambic (short long), just as an example.

You don't have to write in iambic meter, trochaic is fine, but mixing and matching them rarely sounds as good as a consistent meter, which is why that was pushed traditionally.

>> No.16682183

translated it directly from my language and made some changes but I still feel like it won’t deliver what I’m trying to compel

I join my hands
I ask you for things at night
I sleep

I join my hands
I talk to you throughout the day
I learned that I should be grateful

I join my hands
I scream
You do not listen to me

I pull my hair
I feel a lump in my throat
Nothing ever happens

I touch my eyes
I dry my hands
What do I thank you for?

I jab the meat
I damp my lips
Does anyone hear me?

I raise my hands
I speak but I don't know with whom
Are we crazy?

>> No.16682193

Feels childish and fun. I like anon :)

>> No.16682315

From what I have read on meter, and I think i now need to read more on it, trochaic substitutions are fine, even encouraged to break up iambs. When you reviewed my first poems, you mentioned that it did not seem i was intentionally messing up the meter. That is partially true and you identified areas where I didn't know I fucked it up, but I do put a few substitutions to mix it up a bit.

Did you like the second one better? I understand your point on the first one I posted being bland on imagery. Is Statues better on this?

Finally, thank you for your highly constructive criticism. I try to help out in these threads, but I'm still a little new to poetry. It is nice when someone like you comes in and can provide a very detailed analysis

>> No.16682439

Yeah, that sounds and flows nicely. I'm not hyper anal about meter, you only need to spend an hour reading work by the Society of Classical Poets to realise that even perfect rhyme and meter can get monotonous as hell, especially when the ideas being put forward are not phenomenal.

Sure, that's fine, and I don't think you should aim for rigid meter for the sake of it. But I didn't particularly like the sound of your poem, I think a large part of that was its broken meter, and I never felt like the metrical breaks were to the poem's benefit. I tend to place a higher value on euphony than most, so if you don't feel my criticisms are going to help you bring your work to the level you want then you're more than free to disagree with me.

"Statues" has it's worst metrical problems at the start, with that "down in" I mentioned before, and the "an" before "anachronistic." Remove the an, and you'll hear how much more smoothly it flows. The rest is better, though probably not perfect, I'll leave you to assess it. The final line is perfect iambic pentameter, and doubly good because you got the "ay" assonance landing on the strong beats of the first two feet. The poem's theme is something I like too. I think it could be reworked into something good, though I think it's mostly crude as is.

>> No.16682450

My understanding is that you're trying to communicate a feeling of helplessness regarding faith in God

What do you feel is wrong?

>> No.16682460

Untrained minds
Boil the pot
Suspend above it
Kidnapped consciousness

Trained minds
Enjoy the cool lake
Dive deep
Study forgotten shoals

>> No.16682464

Why do I see poems in this thread that convey no complete thoughts, and poems that are easier to understand? I am supposed to understand exactly what you meant when you wrote that garbled mess of ideas? Or am I just supposed to glean impressions from it?

>> No.16682467


I am not safe, although rain yields at the door
and not my flesh, something else gropes me at night.

It dislodges my compass, blackens every sign,
cloaks my path in static, and knifes at me to walk.

Desperate, I search for a crowd to fall into,
hoping to be swallowed as prawn by a careless whale.

But I am poisonous, so they spew me back onto my path,
enveloped in drool and staring down the opaque yards.

>> No.16682468

Cynicism is
Waiting on the bluffs
For some deep sea creature
To come close the surface
To show a shape
All to say
“It must’ve been
Some odd reflection”

>> No.16682491

Sometimes you're meant to find your own interpretation. Sometimes there is a clear interpretation, but it takes a long time to figure out. Sometimes it does mean nothing; it's a garbled series of words and images that evoke a mood.

Poems like Emerson's "Brahma" initially seem obtuse, but have a meaning that can be derived with thought. Others, like Elliot's "Dry Sauvages" are ambiguous enough that you'll probably have to find your own interpretation. Regardless, I think that both are fantastic.

>> No.16682497

These poems are written by a lot of different people in many different styles. There is also large range in talent. They won't make sense in relation to each other

>> No.16682503

My poem was not rated
Im starting to fell a little bit hated
scroll up to check the others
none have replies accept from their mothers

>> No.16682518

A tempest came whose thunder rang
Along our valley walls;
It pours the terror and the rain
Upon the land it falls.
The river banks were not so steep
To keep the flood at bay,
For then we saw a muddy rush
Rip our lives away.
Once the storm did pass, the high
Waters did recede;
We, the scared remaining few,
Vehemently decreed --
"Never again shall the tempest
Ravage our sacred peace!"
Miles upstream, we built a dam
From where the river ceases
To run through mountains and our town;
We sacrificed the clear
Running water, rainbow trout,
And the unfettered frontier
For us to fear the floods no longer;
We thought ourselves secure
During the frightful thunderstorms --
Each one reassuring
Us that the muddy rush was stifled;
We never saw the dam
Festering our tragedy,
Nor did we examine
The cracks from which the river leaked.
When the tempest returned
With its terror and the rain,
There were none concerned --
We thought we conquered nature's woe,
But then we heard a roar
Echo off the valley walls;
Our dam now stood no more
And what was once a muddy rush
Had become a deluge.
I stood stricken in fear -- I knew
There was no place of refuge
From the dreaded, ever approaching
Apocalyptic spate;
Then, breathing in the cold North gale,
I found my place in fate.

>> No.16682547

I like simple poems like this. There's a nice message to it that provides the reader with an interesting thought. However, I dont feel the language really brings it to life. When I speak it out loud, there isn't really a flow to it.

>> No.16682574

OK I think i understand now. One last question on meter, can you switch from trochaic to iambs within a line? Something like below
/ - / - - / - / - /
I do this every once and a while in my poetry and I'm not sure if its 'wrong' or if it can work.

>> No.16682592

Alright, just for you:

Meter problems, egregious enough that it's not worth commenting on the rest of it.

Meter problems, again, egregious enough that there's little point in assessing anything else.

Meter problems, believe it or not. This seems like the kind of thing which might eschew meter entirely, but even then, the language and images are bland and uninspired. "Gray face" has nice assonance, but the image is a bland cliche. The rest is all extremely plain language (note that the previous two poems also suffered this, albeit to a lesser extent).

Meter wobbles. The imagery is more original, which is good, but it doesn't create imagery, and seems like arbitrary gibberish. What is a "graphic sound," and why would it retreat into "empty vice?" I have no idea, and I suspect the author doesn't either. The whole poem suffers from that. It also doesn't evoke the feelings of sadness, regret, and loss that it feels it's trying to. When it becomes more explicit in the last three lines, it becomes an extremely uninspired image that shows the author's hand; there isn't anything here that is actually deep, profound, or new. Reading this back, it feels harsh, but I do think it's honest, too.

Whack meter. Again, that means you have to really do well with language and imagery. This doesn't. There's no imagery here at all. Just ambiguous words that evoke no emotion, and don't really say anything. The language is also plain. The final two lines are decent, and could be reworked into something neat.

>> No.16682617

Where the fuck do you learn to have proper meter? It seems like a simple concept, but i keep fucking it up. What can I read to get better with it?

>> No.16682636

Anything CAN work. The point is, does doing it help you accomplish the effect you're trying to create with your poetry? In "Dulce et decorum est," Owen frequently wrecks his meter and structure to get across what he's trying to convey.

Does it work in your poetry? I didn't think so, I was frequently wincing when hearing it jolt in my ear. If that's the effect you wanted to create, then yes, it's working wonderfully. If you wanted to enchant me with your voice, then no, it is not working. Of course, I'm just one person, and others may feel differently.

>> No.16682654

I don't really know. It comes to me very naturally. I have a musical background though, which might be part of it.

It's a technique called "scanning" by poets. I guess all you can do is practice. Take your favourite poems, speak them aloud, and find where the meter falls. Alternatively, look up examples of specific meters, and learn to recognise how they sound.

I almost exclusively write in iambic tetrameter, because it sounds very natural to me. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a good example of that. Paradise Lost is (entirely/mostly?) Iambic pentameter, so you can try that too. Most English poetry people like uses one of those two metres.

>> No.16682685

Can you tell me if the meter on this poem works? I have been re reading it and the line below is one I think it trips up on.
>Never again shall the tempest

>> No.16682686

No meter, no rhyme, so the usual caveats. The sewage and chicken shit is highly unpleasant, and I suppose therefore effective. "Sharpened focus towards death" seems ambiguous to the point of meaninglessness.

Much of the rest is interesting imagery, but again, Idungeddit. I can't take anything away from it as an idea, the language is plain, and it does nothing for my mood.

This is less effective than the image it's based on, even setting offensiveness aside.

If this is in reference to something, it's straight over my head.

>> No.16682715

Apologies, missed this. Meter is largely spot on for the first section. A strong beat is missing before the first "rip." Likewise with "waters." The "vehemently" line needs work.

You're right about that line, something like "the tempest never shall again" would fit better.

There are more issues as it keeps going. I'd compare them to your first four lines: alternating iambic tetrameter and iambic trimeter (4 feet, 3 feet, 4, 3). I think that's called ballad form? Dunno, I forget.

>> No.16682718

>Hurr durr, poems need to rhyme and have meter
I can list so many amazing poets that don't use rhyme or meter. Please catch up with us in the 21st century.

>> No.16682724

One more question, how do you feel about substitutions? I use them quite a bit because I feel meter that is too consistent is boring. Should they rarely be used or is it alright to use them liberally as long as they work.

>> No.16682730

Yea there are plenty of examples of great free verse, but that poem is not one of them.

>> No.16682740

I didn't say they did. Milton doesn't rhyme and is one of the greatest poets of all time. As for lack of meter, I can't think of any meter-less poems I like, but I know that others feel differently. I can't fathom why people like Pound, Whitman, and Dickinson, for example, but obviously they're very popular.

>> No.16682751

As I said before, I think you should do whatever works. If it creates a good effect, you'd be silly not to. Shakespeare did, and his writing is considered Pretty Good.

>> No.16682763

I can understand if you don't like her, but she wrote pretty much exclusively in ballad form.
Personally, I prefer metered poems, but when free verse is done well, it exceeds meter. My litmus test for free verse is that I start the poem in a monotone voice. If I am not speaking in a rhythm by the end of the poem, its shit

>> No.16682765

About a flounder

A bottom feeder
Absolutely the lowest
Can only look up

>> No.16682775

Oh yeah, whoops. That's embarrassing.

Could you link some free verse you like? I'm willing to change my mind, I just haven't found any I like yet.

>> No.16682786

From on high, that blasted throne. Avast from pretenders down below. Echoed cries of soulless sheathes. Tattered robes and soiled sheets. A mob to form with ignorant queer and lunge toward the throne with intoxication of an egoic beer. Though, this tale has already been told. A million times, it never gets old. The throne sits a king, not diligent nor wise. He simply sat that there as the throne was his size.
The king loved his chosen so precious without pride. They indulge in humanly pleasure and in heaven reside. However, the court caught a glimpse of a jewel. So they did what they could to disguise the king as a fool. The king took his part and waved on the meek. These were the souls unempty nor bleak. So, the poison they shall drink. For it is their kings duty to find what other's seek. He digs his hole and bears a well, where those succumbed are pushed to hell and squashed upon with satyr's feet, their flesh then turned to liquidated treat. And the satyrs, in turn, what do they find? That all repeats for all time.


>> No.16682800

I guess nothing, seems like the translation worked

>> No.16682803

You've never read any Ted Hughes, have you?

>> No.16682809

Examination at the Womb-Door
By Ted Hughes

Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow

>> No.16682827

Plath is who changed my mind on free verse. This is one of my favorites

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed—I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine——-

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

>> No.16682828

Can't say I have. Looking now. He's better than most. Any favourites?

>> No.16682842


>> No.16682847

Ha, funny that I post a Hughes poem and you post a Plath poem. High five!

>> No.16682860

I don't hate it, but I don't love it. I can see the appeal, though.

I've read some Plath. It's a similar thing. There's an occasional line where I think "wow, that's pretty," but I've never thought that any of those lines would not have been improved by putting them in verse, or a short prose story.

>> No.16682872


>> No.16682881

Ehh people have different tastes. I just sometimes get bored with meter so its nice to read some free verse every once and a while. I've never tried writing it though. I want to get meter down perfectly first. Besides, there already is too much shit free verse out there.

>> No.16682883

The Thought Fox
By Ted Hughes

I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
Here is his most famous poem

>> No.16682900

You shall not be a hothead,
Upload another CIA.
Baneposting masks your soul.
You pull it off,
And you shall pay,
You will be dead.
You shall not be a hothead.

>> No.16682921
File: 26 KB, 340x786, 340.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Alright, I'll put you on my flightplan

>> No.16682926

Again, it's nice, but I don't love it. And most of the lines I do like have actually just happened to lapse into meter for a few words ("Body that is bold to come" and "sharp hot stink of fox.") Again, it's fine, again, I see the appeal, but I don't feel it's broken into bold new territory.

>> No.16682928

Yo thanks!

Managing the two is really tough. I go for clarity. I’m glad you took something away from it, though.

In case your wondering it’s about how cynicism eventually causes one to doubt their own thoughts. It causes you to ignore amazing, rare thoughts under the idea that they’re just pangs from bias or maybe you stole the idea from someone else. That would be “some odd reflection”.

>> No.16682933

Well, he was UK's Poet Laureate for like 15 years

>> No.16682954

I sang the soul of time, moving through the bluesy trees!
Their tones evoked by mossy oak a chromic mentalese!
Many light looked through my glass and vibrated, crystallized.
The shining sound like bells out rang, my ears inside my eyes!

I saw the voice of space abreast in coitic milky keys!
Their whiteness witness to a whistle, wittling stone by breeze.
‘Twas toothy tool to chew on bark, to moss scrape away,
wind wakes mind to moving time which steals away the day!

I supped fantasias, phantasy, phantoms’ frightening form!
Chlorine pap, a stinking gas, fresh wheat with milk fire warmed!
They moved my soul, those buds of taste, that germy plasmic slime!
They rattled soul like friction, bell, ring reverie heating mind!

>> No.16682970

The fall is long,
Feel the wind,
I am in charge, I am your
If you won't talk, prepare for death,
You will be shot,
You will be thrown,
I will pierce your skull, I will break your bones!
Lest you want death, conduct a dialogue!
Alas, by your silence I truly am stunned.
You'll conduct an aerial exit,
But nevertheless I'm impressed, it's
not often you see such loyalty
in a hired gun!

>> No.16682985

The UK poet laureate position is infamous for being given to people that were not phenomenal, excepting Tennyson. It would be false to say they've been awful, most are decent to good, but it is not an automatic sign of greatness.

Beyond that, as I said, I'm just not overly fond of free verse, and that's how my tastes run. I'm sure you'd dislike some of my favourite poems, and that's fine.

I'm not going to tell free verse poets that they should write in meter, just that I think they've got a harder job ahead of them if they don't. On the other hand, if someone is clearly trying to write in rhyming meter, or they're close enough to it that I think they might as well just do it (as, honestly, I think is true of the few Hughes poems I've now read), I'd tell them to do it. On top of that, I think even free verse poets should understand meter before they put it aside, just like improvisational jazz musicians shouldn't play randomly without understanding chords, and anime artists shouldn't draw without a proper understanding of anatomy. You should understand the "rules" of an art form to know how to best subvert them.

>> No.16683003

I'm Apollo
Chariot of gold I drive
Over bounding hillocks
Of puffy white clouds
Bob-bobbing on the airsea.
Take a look down there
There flies an angel or so
I thought. But not
An angel at all I see.
I see young Icarus afloat
In the airsea. But hot
Like morning tea on the tongue's tip
And all day it hurts to jabber,
So his wings will wither
While the sun shines hind my cart.
Ai, ai pegasi! A wrenched rime
Wraps round the bearn of Daedalus
The dead paulus washes up
On the seashore, yet West we go.
High time I rested, a drink welcome
In my dry gullet would come
Had I the coin to carry with me to
Cull the choicest draught for my whistle.
Quite contrary, sweet canary
Singing ay at the bar by-the-by
If it were as it were,
Were it to be as it is,
I'd take my trouble erstwhere
Where I'd groan up with my mommy robbin
Ploppin' young worms in my noggin.
But long since then I've traveled
And wandering up and down
Hillies and hallies not once
Has a Hill'ry or Holly
Looked my way with lusty eye.
Ai me, where's been all the ticks
On the ticky-tock grandfather clock
Chiming and climbing ever up
Pushing a rolly to the heights o' Olympus?
That's right I'm done in
I've had too much again
And babble as I bibe.
So let me be my lonesome
In my chariot in the sky.

>> No.16683017

There was a young woman from Morse

Whose lover was hung like a horse

And she was, you could say,

In her own special way,

An equestrian rider of course.

>> No.16683019

Hold up.

So you don't like Wordsworth, Dryden, Rowe, Tate, or Pye? What do you like then???

>> No.16683035
File: 28 KB, 800x449, glorious best korea leader.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Just something simple I wrote.

Within the trees, along the shore,
On trails exploring mountain's lore,
I've breathed blessings of life and death,
A cycle old and evermore.

>> No.16683036

And I totally agree with your lady few sentences. I teach intro Creative Writing at a Polytechnic University and I am the only prof that goes over meter and poetic forms when we start the poetry month.

>> No.16683068

I shouldn't have excluded Dryden.

I prefer Coleridge to Wordsworth. I think Elliot was the best modernist poet, though strictly he was American. Auden had his moments. Milton. Blake occasionally. Yeats occasionally. Most of Tennyson. Kipling sometimes. Donne occasionally. Shelley occasionally. Most of Hopkins. Some of Flecker. Owen for the obvious. Marvell for the obvious. Gray for the obvious. Probably leaving a few things out, but I think that's most of Britain. There are Americans and Australians I like too, but I'll leave them out.

>> No.16683073
File: 245 KB, 287x400, 617EABB8-50C7-4356-8935-446A471703C5.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

summer is ending / chill wind whistles between trees / causing leaves to fall

>> No.16683080

solid haiku. I am a big fan of the traditional haiku with references to seasons.

>> No.16683084

Sounds like you're doing good work!

>> No.16683088

I tried to contrast summer at the start with fall at the end

>> No.16683091

I'm a lolicon
Hauu, these cute 2d girls
Why do I feel guilt?

>> No.16683095

I agree on preferring Coleridge over Wordsworth

>> No.16683102

>my soles
>not a show feet meme

>> No.16683114

I'm a pedophile
Hauu these cute 3D girls
why do I feel love?

>> No.16683116
File: 938 KB, 400x225, boobs and bourbon.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

The Fall
The Light expelled my soul from its domain;
I hurtled toward the open ocean blue
Accompanied by thunder and the rain.
Between the clouds, its surface came in view,
Covered in indigo -- it seemed so smooth
And flawless like a marble in the sky.
Then I began to see its features move;
The rivers in the ocean seen from high
Hugged along the naked shoreline;
It would recede and swell by Luna's eye,
Leaving white foam upon the beaches
Then rolling back into the currents line.
When I had cleared the clouds,
The Earth revealed its countless waves
That moved in tides; sometimes they would
Clash against another crest by their side.
I slammed into the sea and saw the splash
Disappear in stormy chop.
The weight of sin submerged my soul.
I plunged beyond the surface that swirls
To black and cold abyss
Where Light shall fail to shine,
Where senses freeze and die.
There is no me;
I was consumed in bleak eternity;
There is only
The Dark.

>> No.16683126
File: 571 KB, 685x1111, DE'UNA FLAMA DE LUZ FINIDA.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>> No.16683127

I didn't write this I just remember someone posting it last year and really liking it

A man amends to mend but bends
Earthward, as if to crawl as earthworm,
Of flesh I have but this to say:
Holds sway for a day and then is lost,
Least we grow attached, to that wretched word,
At long last dread, I welcome you home,

The head, the head, the head
is the house of man says men,
And the heart is a ghost long dead,
Skylark signals daily toil,
Shredded our bark, exposed the soil,
I am lost, not a word to say,
I spit up my bread, born labor of a day,
I was easy and was made afraid,

It is as if by knife I'm flayed,
Broken downward of a spine I'm splayed,
Broken aspirations, downward driven, knelt to pray,
My goals far gone, now to kiss the grown I've walked upon,

Behold! The Creative-Nothing nothing created!
Aspirations of creativity are my only liability,
When this world is if as one with futility,
Gorging fire, youth cruel pyre, forging on till I expire,

Mind, oh god, dear god,
Lift away my every sorrow,
And let me borrow for today,
The strength you would've had tomorrow,

Alas, such crevasse mind cannot surpass,
And in the ilk of silk-like muzzle,
Ailing muscle, in short time it will collapse,

Once severed from this sweet illusion,
Like a verse from the poet’s hearth delusion,
All that's depraved endowed onto our kind,
My thoughts slaved by this pollution,
that now remains within enshrined,

It is I, orphan of time and circumstance,
As it stands, past me, can’t help to be,
but what he has already been,
Can't see, blind and mute, to soothe his soul
he plays the lute, too bad the fool's tone deaf,
With plea I've turned to face my future self,
Only to have that man advert my gaze,

Somehow that day I dared to dream,
And today I dare to dream again,
bitterness and gratitude, hope and despair,
it all melts together, nothing left spared,
Until you are left cold and wet, a castaway,
you've cast your die, now walk away,
Shivering, eyes wide open, no tears to weep,
but at least, no longer asleep.

>> No.16683183
File: 265 KB, 289x224, LENNI II.gif [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]



>> No.16683188



>> No.16683196

Yes to some, but most people think of them at odds. Those are the people I am writing this for.

>> No.16683197

also are you yelling at me or are you that one poster on here that always posts with caps lock on?

>> No.16683200

don't feed the troll

>> No.16683210

looks good

>> No.16683216




>> No.16683229

but I am correcting them in the same poem

>> No.16683253

I journey on
To untold frontiers beyond
A darling flower waiting for me back home
I must journey on

>> No.16683258

painted lush, upon bosoms which i dreamed to touch
my fearful mind ever wary, frightened of your memory
skin of snow, to caress of you and to ever hold
my hope it fades, to never see you again i hope not and pray

>> No.16683263


>> No.16683269



>> No.16683280

You're really missing the point of the poem if you think I am hinting at paganism as the solution and not an example.

>> No.16683282

I should have listened

>> No.16683303

This is my first and only poem in English. Please be nice.


Land of birth and home of mine
Sand and lime; the sea divine
The yellow fields mine eyes do see
Timber frame house; the apple trees
Land of birth and home of mine
Fields of grass; love abound
Long the shore that stretches north
Whitest sand; yonder I walk
Land of birth and home of mine
How I love thee; land divine
On top the hills the churches stand
steadfast they remind
Of God’s great gifts (passed down)
And His love divine.
(Land of birth; love of mine.)

>> No.16683305



>> No.16683327

>Timber frame house
This part sounds odd to me. The rest is good but it seems to keep going for too long.

>> No.16683328

a tree
a bell
a cape
her mouth
a spell
to free
the love
she gave
a reason
to breathe
to break
the spell
she made

she slaved
she slaved

she saved

>> No.16683347

A Michael Richards moment
In my Chris Benoit Story

My head hurts
I’m snapping shortly

Could be shorter
Couple of good lines
Does not feel like a poem.
This could be great. Its good as it stands
I like the rhymes.
hate it
Could be better.
Love it. Best so far
Good concept. bad execution.

>> No.16683352

I like the way
You look
When your alone

My cock
Is as hard as stone

I watch you
From your home

I will never
Leave you alone

>> No.16683358

you tortured me with my consent
you are whatever the moon has always meant
you are inside of me and yet
miles and miles and miles away you think i walked away from you
as if i had any other choice but to
a willing prisoner of this cage that is your heart i feel your every
ache for me
i know what it takes to be
i don’t shy away from what is

>> No.16683359

i keep missing all my deadlines, god’s got me in a deadlock

god i hope i don’t choke on all this ambition
hope it wasn’t ego disguised as intuition
sometimes i wonder if there’s still room for me in the kitchen, a simple life
i could be a simple wife, a bridled bride free from the strife of a ceaseless mind
sign your name on the dotted line
here she lies: nameless aimless faceless, finally defined

>> No.16683374

In the part of Sweden I’m from they made houses out of timber frames and big stones. It doesn’t really have a good English equivalent word. At least not that I’ve found.

>> No.16683378

i could’ve written a book

i could’ve knitted a red scarf
to wear around my red neck
to keep my bleeding red body warm
to shelter my thin skin against the storm

i could’ve written a book
i could’ve written a book
i could’ve spilled the black bubbling ink in my veins
i could’ve spit it out from my mouth onto the page
i could’ve been somebody
i shake my fist at the sky and scream i could’ve been somebody!

what a nobody nobody no-body i am
hovering motionless in the air
what a complicated wisp of smoke
and how i dissipate
how i scatter and fade
and doesn’t it bother you, how you can’t capture me with your stare?
doesn’t it bother you, how i disappear? how you can’t breathe me in?
and you'll never read my ending or re-read your favorite part

>> No.16683397

i made you with love
i held you in my hands
and then i dropped you
i watched you land and i watched you grow
i watched your bones break one by one
i watched every time your heart sank into your stomach every butterfly infestation there
i watched you tangle your limbs and branches with countless others
in celebration, in despair
i watched the air leave your lungs and the water leave your eyes
i gave you time
and watched your heart struggle to stretch, to keep it, to hold every moment it could
i watched your mind bend itself around itself
i watched your mouth spew and sputter stop and start
i watched as your body filled with silence
and i watched as it screamed for me in the dark
and how you ached and ached
and begged to be released from the pain
how you couldn’t see the knife in your own hand as you drew your own blood

and then, that most perfect then
i watched as your sleepy eye began to open
as you wiped the dream away
to look me in the face
to recognize my eyes
as your own

>> No.16683448

Hahaha do poems have to have arguments?

>> No.16683461

> Thinks "Sharpened focus towards death" is ambiguous
>The end of the poems shows that there's a funeral home right next to a Christian elementary school

Are you that retarded, anon?

>> No.16683465



>> No.16683472

nonsensical word-salads

>> No.16683524

If this thread's not dead, here's a poem I'm working on:

Day Poem

the sky is a smiling woman.
i sit in her lap
as baby blue horses
leap in broad arches above us
dropping gold coins from between
snow-white teeth.

today, a warm sadness.
a dark lamp is on.

didn’t you tell me, once,
that a tear is like pouring
melted butter from a pan?

Jan is drawing a picture
where gasoline is in the rain
and running in the gutter
and the circus is like a lantern, lit
dim-yellow in the fog by fire-tricks.

in loneliness
there is a want
to find another man
with eyes
like wet bread.

a woman shakes
when she cums;
i think of this often.
i think of a man’s daily
castration of the heart,
the trumpet of my penis
and of the bubbles rising
in the dark river,
an old man
talking in his sleep.

>> No.16683530

I didn't read it closely enough. And now I have it seems even worse. "The sharpened focus towards death, that permeates perfect fear" is such a ludicrous painting of a funeral home as to be comical. In retrospect, the sudden reveal at the end is hopelessly underwhelming in light of the buildup; so much that I didn't even grok that this was what was being discussed. I don't think it works as a shock reveal, and it doesn't give me a new appreciation or impression of funeral homes. But yeah, mea culpa.

>> No.16683542

But isn't the point of OP's poem to show that right across the street from a Christian elementary school is a funeral home, yet these kids, parents, and "Canaanites" are blinded by this reality? It's not to be like, "LOOK AT THIS FUNERAL HOME", but instead to show that death is so close to what we do in the day by day and we forget or push it out of our minds? It isn't supposed to be a "shock", but more of a reveal, and I would argue that the poem, though has some iffy lines here and there, does that well.

>> No.16683565

not too bad. personally, i don't care for the Eliot reference. it feels like an undergrad literary flex. i'd always rather see some actually poetic invention than a reference to someone else's. also, the "did i forget that detail" is a little cutesy, i think. i'd remove it and keep the focus off the speaker.

>> No.16683581

I like "the sky is a smiling woman." It's a neat sounding line that makes a good image. But rather than build on it, or justify the comparison, you set it aside, and go for more images, which I think are less successful. I take the rest of the first stanza to be blue gaps in the clouds with sunlight leaking through. I think the image you've put forward is creative, but I don't find it compelling. Blue horses spitting out coins is not an especially pleasant image, nor does it strike me as a particularly good characterisation of the sky.

I like the contradicting constructions; "warm sadness," "dark lamp." They don't get used enough. That said, the lines lack euphony, so while they ideas are nice, I don't think the language you've used is pretty or interesting.

The next stanza has similar euphony problems, and it's the first image to go right over my head. Aside from the obvious dripping, I don't see the comparison. It might mean something to you, it's meaningless to me.

The first three lines of the next stanza are back to largely plain language, save the assonance in the third. Again, that limits it for me. The final line is pretty word use, and I like it. But the overall stanza is a mess of an image. Is she drawing a picture in the gasoline streaked water? Is it Just referring to city rain? I Don't know, and none of the images I can summon up are compelling.

The next stanza is plain as hell and has gone right over my head.

The first three lines of the last stanza strike me as comically stupid. I'm imagining a guy imagining this shaking and nodding thoughtfully. Does he think of it often because it arouses him especially? I'm stretching and don't really care. "Castration of the heart" is a nice line, but again, too ambiguous in this context to take much from. What is it, rejection? Loneliness? Masculine distance-keeping? I don't know, so I can't care. I'm just gonna leave it there.

Unlike several other poems in this thread, I think you do know what all your ambiguous lines and images are meant to be. But there's nothing for me to grab onto. It's rain that hits with a soft impact and will evaporate within an hour, leaving me with nothing.

>> No.16683604

Seems a better reading than mine. Again though, even reading it that way, it doesn't do much for me. It is a neat idea, but not clothed in a way that I feel is very striking or memorable. Again, I also prioritise euphony which this hardly uses, it's not really to my taste to begin with, so I'm probably a poor person to be giving it feedback.

>> No.16683606

Debateth me brethren, lmao

>> No.16683619
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>> No.16683636

For Warwick

Small and petit
tiny little feet
stubby hands of slight
thou meager paltry mite
pint sized Picuminus
teeny itty bitty fetus
scanty piddling shrimp
runty pee-wee gimp
miniature idol of my hate
microscopic pawn of fate

>> No.16683724

thanks for taking the time to comment. i'm interested in poetry that aims at enigmatic language and inventive use of literary device. a lot of what i like uses humor at the same time as it attempts an emotional impact. frank stanford, james tate and charles simic come to mind. do you have interest in contemporary poetry? i don't mean this as an attack, but you seem to comment from a more dated sensibility.

>> No.16683751

Not at all, thanks for taking it well. I think it's interesting work, even if not wholly to my taste. Nothing would make me happier than to discover a contemporary poet I truly admire, but none of those I've seen recommended have ever resonated with me, and I increasingly think that my love for the artform is for its parts that are increasingly out of fashion.

>> No.16683781

I'd love to recommend some poets! Contemporary poetry is difficult to penetrate because there really are no household names anymore because of the place poetry holds, culturally, at least in the US.

If you like Faulkner, I'd recommend my favorite poet, Frank stanford. Here's a beautiful, melancholy sample. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50131/riverlight

I'd also recommend John Berryman for his syntactical experimentation. If you like Whitman's odd verbiage, I'd say Berryman could be a good gateway into more contemporary work. His "Dream Songs" are excellent. Here's another sample.

Don't mean to sperg out, but I love the thought of being able to get more attentive eyes on these guys. Hope you enoy.

>> No.16683800

I wish I could tell you I loved them, but alas. I've read a bunch from each of them, and just can't get into it. Thanks for the recs though, I appreciate it.

>> No.16683820

Wirriam Brake?

>> No.16683830

I adapted the Hothead poem from Russian. It went much smoother:
He бyдь гopячeй гoлoвoй
Зaпocти ЦPУ
Бeйнпocтинг - мacкa для дyши
Cними eё - я нe yмpy
Hacтaнeт твoй
He бyдь гopячeй гoлoвoй

>> No.16684258

>>16683352 i was able to misconstrue some valuable feedback out from your shitpost so thanks

>> No.16684274

Friday afternoon

She sang her heart out
It slipped up through her esophagus like a bar of soap
And bounced along the floor, 134 over 80
A correctional nurse reported the value on a crisp white sheet
As the janitor mopped up the crimson splatters,
whistling along to her song.
It was almost weekend

>> No.16684288

i like making up poems in chinese, it's a good language for brevity


>> No.16684304 [DELETED] 
File: 84 KB, 904x864, tired pepe.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

Do alt-rightlets really

>> No.16684417 [DELETED] 

>control F
>niggers one result
Come on guys. I'm disappointed

>> No.16684793

Can someone help explain meter to me? A lot of my poems have been trashed for it and it does not seem as easy as I thought. Is it something that requires study or just do what works? Some of the substitutions I've put in intentionally have been called out. Does this come down to a person's taste or would it be obvious to everyone? For example the line in >>16682036
>Are brought down in iconoclastic rage
I intentionally use a trochaic substitution for 'down in'. When I wrote it, I liked the extra emphasis it put on the word down. Does this sound bad to other people? Is my ear off?

>> No.16684802

>It comes to me very naturally
shut the fuck up, Brianlet.
>Whack meter. Again, that means you have to really do well with language and imagery. This doesn't. There's no imagery here at all. Just ambiguous words that evoke no emotion, and don't really say anything. The language is also plain. The final two lines are decent, and could be reworked into something neat.
It was a poem by Robert Creeley, you pleb

>> No.16684861

Then Robert Creeley is an overrated hack, or that's a shit example of his work.

>> No.16684871

cope, pleb

>> No.16684877

Seethe, pseud.

>> No.16684894

>butthurt pleb with shit taste who self-describes as someone for whom 'meter comes naturally'
never seen a bigger faggot pseud than you

>> No.16684912

You seem upset.

>> No.16684926
File: 77 KB, 1200x800, You.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]


>> No.16684931

>Robert Creeley
Here you see that a poem posted on /lit/ will be tritely criticized, but if that same poem is posted under an "accomplished" poet's name, it will go unblemished, unless it is absolute shit. I've seen many poems that could go toe to toe with famous poets here during my time here, but all have "whack meter" and "inaccurate rhyme." Let me just do you all a favor- make OP say "check your meter and rhyme before posting the poem. If you want good rhyme and meter, check it twice; if you don't, post it as is."

>> No.16684935
File: 619 KB, 1200x675, lol.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

>I almost exclusively write in iambic tetrameter, because it sounds very natural to me
ok RC Waldun

>> No.16684969

Your mistake is assuming that poems on /lit/ are excellent, and not that the work of almost all professional poets is bad. If Creeley's work is undistinguishable from what's posted in these threads, that is not flattering.

As for the rest... Yeah? I mean, half the people in this thread do seem like they're trying to write metred poetry. Most haven't done it well, presumably through ignorance or lack of practice. It's an easy and obvious criticism that doesn't need to be repeated a dozen times.

>> No.16684991

I have just pulled a random Yeats poem. Does this have perfect meter? I know it does at the end, but I am mainly asking about the beginning

When have I last looked on The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies Of the dark leopards of the moon? All the wild witches those most noble ladies, For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone. The holy centaurs of the hills are banished; And I have nothing but harsh sun; Heroic mother moon has vanished, And now that I have come to fifty years I must endure the timid sun.

>> No.16684999

Sorry the copy paste fucked up the lines

When have I last looked on
The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies
Of the dark leopards of the moon?
All the wild witches those most noble ladies,
For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.
The holy centaurs of the hills are banished;
And I have nothing but harsh sun;
Heroic mother moon has vanished,
And now that I have come to fifty years
I must endure the timid sun.

>> No.16685032

Perfect? No. Again, is that necessarily a problem? No. Do I like the poem? No. Do I like "The second coming" which is also by Yeats, and does not use straight meter? Yes.

My point isn't that straight meter is always preferable. It's that if your poem sounds awkward and janky, for no good reason, you should consider it's meter.

>> No.16685076 [DELETED] 

Dear sunshine

The way you glow through my blinds in the morning
It makes me feel like you missed me
Kissing my forehead to help me out of bed
Making me rub the sleepy from my eyes

Are you asking me to come out and play?
Are you trusting me to wish away a rainy day?
I look above. The sky is blue
It's a secret, but I trust you too

If it wasn't for you, I could sleep forever
But I'm not mad

>> No.16685083

Dear sunshine

The way you glow through my blinds in the morning
It makes me feel like you missed me
Kissing my forehead to help me out of bed
Making me rub the sleepy from my eyes

Are you asking me to come out and play?
Are you trusting me to wish away a rainy day?
I look above. The sky is blue
It's a secret, but I trust you too

If it wasn't for you, I could sleep forever
But I'm not mad

I want breakfast

>> No.16685098

Locate I
love you some-
where in

teeth and
eyes, bite
it but

take care not
to hurt, you
want so

much so
little. Words
say everything.

love you

then what
is emptiness
for. To

fill, fill.
I heard words
and words full

of holes
aching. Speech
is a mouth.

>> No.16685101

>rhymes me with me 10 times

>> No.16685131

Cabin Fever

Preaching the sodomy of the industry
Teaching the dichotomy of society
Longing for a world of purity
Foreshadowing the forthcoming of a primitive state

Coming to a fate to berate
Wishing to start from a new slate
Fueled by the passion of so much hate

Finding the truth of life within oneself
Eliminating the effects of wealth
Diving into civilizations depths
Bombs up upon the shelf

>> No.16685135

>My point isn't that straight meter is always preferable. It's that if your poem sounds awkward and janky, for no good reason, you should consider it's meter.
OK and I perfectly agree with this and I am sure I can better with the flow of my poems, but I also do not always like poems that are only perfectly iambic. From what i am beginning to understand here, is there is some preference that goes into a poems meter. At the end of the day, it just needs to feel like the poem has a flow to it and is pleasing to the ear when read.

>> No.16685141

>Coming to a fate to berate
Change fate out. Too much of a rhyme can be a bad thing. Rest of it is a good read

>> No.16685233


>> No.16685245

based sayori

>> No.16685265

I dont know what that means and Google isn't much help

>> No.16685285

We came so close to love.
To grasping that fair flower
Whose petals hold and curl.
But you retreated to your tower,
Whose high stone walls do reach and strike
Upon the point where all earth's light
Does rush in from the wingéd stars,
Where with all their faces bent upon ours
They gazed on what appeared to be
The form of immortality.

It pains me like steel that I cannot know
How the fair-fast mettle of your eyes does throw
A new dawn's light upon its mark,
Setting there so fine a spark
Prometheus would have borne it away.
I shall never know how your liquid hips sway
When they are met with loins like theirs
And in bed's embrace make loving pairs,
Shrinking all the earth hard down upon
Beauty that within your body brightly shone.

>> No.16685287

Nice idea for structure, terrible metric, weak imagery, poor understanding of language

>> No.16685392

You clearly have no idea what you're talking about and know nothing about poetics.

>> No.16685406

t. criticism from a first-year undergrad
Absolute dribble and insipid.

>> No.16685681

This summarizes half of the criticisms in this thread. Is this what people go to college for? Is this what people read all of the world's poets for? To make poetry an exact science? Soon, they'll study to find words that elicit the strongest response, and if you do not use these words you objectively have "weak imagery." Everything needs to be objective

>> No.16685706

I think most of it is one poster that has a hard on for meter. He's not wrong, but don't take his criticisms too hard. People have different tastes

>> No.16685726

No wonder, people become apologists for their degrees. Just like someone who learns about music passes all music through the strainer of music theory rather than trying to appreciate the poetry as a fellow poet, in a similar position. If you feel like the poetry of others is below you, then go somewhere where you are more equally matched, because you cannot feel the poetry they write because they are not your peers.

>> No.16687203

I have never formally studied poetry and have no plans to do so.

The thread is set up for rating others' work. It is petulant to complain when people do just that; particularly given the dirge of feedback given by people other than myself (which has typically consisted of one line analyses saying "It's good." That is almost worthless feedback).

I have studied music theory, however, and your analogy would cause almost any musician to fall over laughing. In music, you cannot hide behind a veil of aloofness and ambiguity. If your composition sounds bad, a ten-year old will know. Neither will you ever achieve the effect you want to without understanding chords, progressions, and the effect they normally have on people.

I'd contend the exact same is true of poetry. Whatever benefit to meaning is granted by free verse, is lost in musicality. Whether the trade is worth it or not, I think you would need to be ignorant or dishonest to deny that there is a tradeoff there.

It isn't a question of whether any poet is "above" or "below" me. It's a question of whether I like their work. If you want the thread to be a hugbox, it certainly can be one. If you want it to contain honest and unmalicious criticism, then people are going to tell you they don't like your work. That's how taste works, and it's only a fragile and foolish writer who does not seek out as much honest feedback as he can from all places. If meter does not interest you, it's extremely simple to ignore any feedback you get that discusses meter; much as a NASCAR fan can ignore critics who complain about the sport's lack of ballet dancing.

Complaining about discussions of meter because it doesn't match your taste, however, is insipid and narcissistic. English poetry has a thousand year history of metre, and it is appallingly narrow-minded to discard that entirely purely because it does not match your philosophy of poetry, just as I believe it would be narrow minded of me to discard all free verse on the basis that I don't like it.

>> No.16687463

can someone drag my word-salad poems?


>> No.16687536

It's almost perfect iambic dimeter, broken only by "a reason" which is a three syllable line. It broke the musicality for me, and not in a way that enhanced the meaning. The imagery is too vague and unemotional for the line to land with impact, and I think breaking the meter costs you more than you gain.

Two syllables is also extremely restrictive in terms of imagery and meaning. The first few lines do not seem connected to the larger meaning; neither do they establish mood. While the rhymes assist the musicality, there is limited assonance, which hurts it severely. This form offers very little except musicality, so I think you should maximise that if you want to use it. Otherwise the imagery is too ambiguous and disconnected for the story of the girl to carry much weight.

>> No.16687576

Line one is in meter, and sounds nice. The expression is a bit juvenile; the kind of thing that shows up in tortured teenage love poetry (I've written it and I know). I suppose it's a cliche, so it lacks impact.

I want to like line two; It's an original thought, but I suspect that if I asked you what the moon meant, you couldn't tell me, and the expression seems to be here only for the rhyme. But trying to capture the love through a unique expression is on the right track.

The emotions in the next few lines come through. Again, the overall feeling is a little juvenile, but it reads honestly, except for "stay," which feels artificial and spoils that entirely. Ending on "choice" would have given it more power, I suspect.

I think the overall poem is largely the same. It reads like someone who is genuinely in the agony of love, which gives it something, but being a bit older, it's hard not to roll my eyes a bit at that now. While the feelings are powerful, they don't feel deep. There's agony, but I'm given no reason to care about the girl, or this love. Neither are the expressions you're using original. This is a love much like any love; nothing makes it special or memorable.

>> No.16687622

Again, the feelings feel honest, but this time they lack power severely. Without showing me the cost of failure, it's difficult to care whether you choke on your ambition or not. Neither do I know why you developed that ambition in the first place. You're telling a story, but you don't let me get to know the character's situation, so I can't care about them. You can argue that it's my job to extrapolate from what you've written; I'd argue it isn't my job to do your work for you.

The last few lines feel honest again, and are probably the strongest part of the poem. The emotions come through. The second final line feels almost like it's floating, while the final line crashes back down to earth. They're in a balanced meter, except the final line has an extra
beat that comes down like a heavy foot. The "ay" assonance on the same beat helps the them together and strengthen the call and response. Probably my favourite lines in this thread.

>> No.16687679

The first three lines have strong imagery with the red scarf. Breaking the meter in the third line with "red" actually works; it stands out all the more and ties it into the red scarf. The fourth line fucks it entirely. "Thin skin" is a shit cliche, the line lacks meaning, lacks the magical ambiguity the first three lines built up, and "storm" is a horrendously predictable rhyme that is clearly only there because it IS a rhyme.

"Black bubbling ink in my veins" is nice, but "spit it onto the page" is a stupid mixed metaphor. Why would you spit blood? It has resonance with spill, sure but why not just cut the line down to spilling blood onto the page. The "veins/page" assonance is nice.

"I shake my fist at the sky" is another shitty cliche, though I like what you're going for.

"No-body" is very nice. The three lines from "what a complicated" are excellent; using assonance for lyricism, and conveying a potent image in an original way. Really Good.

The final six lines feel janky as fuck. The meaning is fine, but the musicality is gone. It also has the god-awful cum-guzzling self righteous satisfaction of Maya Angelou screeching in "I'll rise," which irks me to the extreme. Still, overall, it's not bad.

>> No.16687696

I'm kinda worn out after the first four, so I'll just sum up. This is the good kind of free verse to me; it maintains resonance and occasional rhyme for lyricism, has a clear point, and uses original imagery to try to convey it.

Overall I like your poems. I'm surprised to find myself saying it, but it's true.

>> No.16687701

Are you actually criticising everyone's metre in this thread without even knowing that good iambic pentameter is always irregular? Literally scan 10 lines of Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Keats and they'll have ten substitutions. Look at Browning's blank verse or Wallace Stevens', barely iambic.

>> No.16687722

I got these two mixed up, I think. The one that ends "mine" is what I was referring to with favourite two lines.

>> No.16687738

He's probably just an undergrad that learned how to scan Sidney a couple weeks ago. I'm sure once he's studied Homer, Terrence, Virgil, Horace, and Donatus he'll be less strict.

>> No.16687741

Not at all. I'm not pushing for perfect iambic pentamter. I'm pushing for good effective rhythm instead of janky rhythm - which can be produced easily by straight iambic whenever a line is unpleasant on the ear for no good reason.

>> No.16687869

Jazz has it's rules but it doesn't sound consonant or very conventionally rhythmic. The application of robotic meter as solution for janky rhythm seems somewhat akin to saying that bad jazz should be corrected by applying 4/4 beat to it. In reality if the poem does not work, there could be a way to work the issue out while respecting the author's intention, instead of applying a one size fits all solution. Besides and this is just my opinion, but to a modern ear, the basic rhythmic and rhyme patterns of poetry that have been traditionally used sound as tired and contrived as 12 bar blues with pentatonics to a guitar player. If the poet in this case plays an E# in a place that doesn't work, you shouldn't necessarily tell him to play E because it's the fifth of A on a turnaround because that "works", I would be more inclined to fix the E# in context of what he is trying to do. See whether the surrounding chords can be changed to work in the E#, see whether a chromatic run from E# to somewhere else could work etc. If he is playing just ambient music and that is what he enjoys then I think there could be 3-4 better suited suggestions than telling him to play the fifth for the turnaround. In fact, I do not think music is a good analogy for poetry to begin with, I see poetry as closer to film or painting, than music. To me it is more visual than aural and that is what I enjoy. When I see a word, it evokes a visual concept to me, when I hear it, it evokes both a visual concept as well as almost a ritual or religious incantation. That is what attracts me to poetry, the imaginatively visual and the aurally incantational. I understand that is my specific taste, but again the application of meter to every single poem in this thread seems a bit like bulldozing everything without discrimination. It reminds me a bit of that movie "NOT MY TEMPO". Of course, I commend you for at least taking the time to critique (you're the lone one who is even trying), but I think your critique is highly specific and related to your taste, it is not necessary that the basic solution to every problem is to fix the meter.

>> No.16687876

One of the more based posts ive ever seen

>> No.16687914


holy shit! eye doesn't even rhyme with symmetry. william blake, what a fucking hack.

>> No.16687918

you are whatever the moon has always meant is an e.e. cummings line
i shake my fist at the sky was like making fun of myself lol

i want to put most of this to music one day so they probably won't stay poems.
sound is what i care about the most in my writing..i don't care to tell a story, that's why i don't do prose. i just want it to 1) sound right and 2) make you feel something

so i'm happy that you mentioned "emotion", "feel", and meter a lot in your feedback - though any meter i may have used was hardly intentional, it just comes out that way. anyway, thank you so much for taking the time to read and write such thoughtful responses, it really means a lot to me.

>> No.16687922

It isn't conventionally rhythmic only in the sense that it swings. Much of it still abides by 4/4 time, and the rules of tempo and harmony. Most bad jazz is IN 4/4, so that's not a suitable analogy. A better one would be: if someone composed music that had no rhythm whatsoever, and not in a way that was artistically meaningful, the absolute first thing you would teach them would be rhythm and tempo. They are so basic and fundamental that your odds of writing music that people like without them are virtually zero.

I'm absolutely not proposing meter as a catch all fix for bad poetry. Again: if poetry sticks in the ear, for no good reason, then changing the meter can fix that. That's all. Especially in the case of poets who seem like they are trying to write lyrical, metrical poetry, but are not succeeding.

If a poem sucks, there are any number of ways to fix it, from changing meaning, rhythm, rhyme, imagery, to abandoning the poem entirely. Meter is simply one solution, and given how easy and effective a solution it usually is, I've prescribed it. If you want people to improve their work in other ways, you are more than welcome to provide your own feedback to people in this thread as I have done.

As you say, people appreciate poetry for different reasons. But I cannot judge poetry through any lens but my own taste (or, if I can, I don't want to). I don't want to say "NO U" to people who take a different approach, but if you wish to see a different critical lens, please apply it. Especially the dozens of people who've submitted work but provided little or no feedback for others.

>> No.16687940

thank you so much, anon

>> No.16688095

I'll give you a pass because you seem to be the only person in this thread giving valid advice, but you do seem to be very strict on meter.

>> No.16688100

at first we exchange nothing but through double takes and higher jumps to blackjack-risk raptor claw soft caresses breaking surface tension without a splash we catch a glimpse of a gold leaf coated ornament
coalescence of the self drives hunger to excite, to move, to join, to experience, to be
rolled up are our sleeves yet fingernail thin are the scratches at once-still clear but ever-rippling bodies
and it rises
we see it
like a moth to a flickering sterile purple-white-green spiderweb-thin blanket covering an empty parking lot and up towards a meniscus seemingly impenitrable and distortive; true nature unknowable and elusive
until our once-cold wrinkly fingers recoil and warmth once insulated surrounds us and we find ourselves within an embrace previously thought to originate only from the divine
once ornamental now the bearer of a meaning with more gravity than the world
we excite, we move, we join, we experience, we are
and it follows suit

>> No.16688123

Could you put some more punctuation in there? The flow is nice but I just need a breath every oncs and a while.

>> No.16688137
File: 29 KB, 165x115, ddc.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]


>> No.16688176
File: 15 KB, 620x462, poem.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

yeah 4chan destroyed my spacing

>> No.16688202

Furry blanket
Covers me
Drank some coffee
Need to pee
Keeps me warm
Brace my bladder
'Til the dawn

>> No.16688226

I like the idea, but u should put a little more time in the “like a moth” part.
U have a good flow.


My arms extending for the laptop/
My back slouching towards the bed/
I can hear the neighbor’s tv,/
something Trump said or did/
I should go for a walk today/
Yesterday I stayed in bed.

>> No.16688897

I went and bought a gun
so I could shoot at the homeless
They're too clean for the streets
I want to become the fetus
that I've tucked between the rolls of my stomach
that he could tear my flesh warmly
I wish He would answer

>> No.16689038
File: 43 KB, 636x382, fat crowe.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]

America's story is Jazz.
A sound was born in New Orleans;
Slaves would celebrate the Sabbath
Through downtown streets,
Singing their blues,
Syncopating their beats.
Ragged in minstrel shows
When hidden under a shoe polished coat,
The sound had still exposed
Majestic tones to men and women
Who loved the art at which they laughed.
Creoles who knew the theory
Were integrated under Jim Crow
With keepers of a nascent sound;
Societal pressures formed a cultural
Diamond whose scintillation was so clear
That bigotry had failed to block its brilliance.

Jazz is the spirit of America.
Its an impulse,
A disciplined instinct,
Swing that makes a resting heart beat
Soniferous energy, setting two tapping feet
Alive in glee -- meticulously arranged chords
Into a sweeping arpeggio which rings
Trumpeting notes of virtuosity,
That blend in time to the vivacious rhythm;
The horns blow out orchestral downbeats,
Collapsing walls of classics,
Followed by a somber final note
Flowing form an alto sax.

American's don't play Jazz anymore.