/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.20188543]

Let's see /lit/'s poetry

[Anonymous No.20188552]

>>20188543
Bakker rules supreme
Brando rage and scream
Can't compete even in a dream
His prose so good makes pussy cream

[Anonymous No.20188627]

>>20188543
Negroes

[Anonymous No.20188632]

>>20188543
I hate ((niggers))
Black
Blak
Blk
Why must they live in my neighborhood
Hood
Niggers go to your hood

[Anonymous No.20188637]

>>20188627
Negroes rule with might
Caucasian is filled with fright
Black skin worn like the night
The pecs is the most perfect sight

[Anonymous No.20188646]

Of poetry I have never cared for any,
other than Edgar,
.....Allan Poe.

Remember it doesn't have to rhyme, in fact not rhyming means it's probably more sophisticated.

[Anonymous No.20188649]

>>20188543
For what purpose? There's only three ways you could respond:
>that's good
>that's bad
>[nothing]
Fuck off and post your own poetry.

[Anonymous No.20188650]

>>20188543
Jannies come and jannies stay
Their clean bright spark: defeated
For they doth work for zero pay
This thread has been pruned or deleted

[Anonymous No.20188656]

I had one white ho that said that I'm too dark
I pulled out my penis and I fucked her at the park
And they say I'm very smart but I don't have a degree
I hit up my lil' college bitch, she's topping me for free
I be chillin' in my bed with some porn my TV
And she be texting me 'cause I got a BBC
Yeah, my dick is big as fuck and I'm very, very, black
I showed it to my neighbor and she had a heart attack
But I knew she was racist and she liked Donald Trump
I pulled out my penis and I put it in her cunt
But no, no, no, I swear it wasn't rape
She tried to top me off while I filmed it on a tape
And I love to wake and bake with some pussy on my face
I get the sloppy-toppy then I take her on a date
I don't care, I don't care about a bitch's race
All I give a fuck about is how the pussy tastes

[Anonymous No.20188657]

>>20188543
I went to out lookings for answers
Anwers for what?
For nothing and everything
Just to realize
There is no nothing and everything
It was you all the time
Cause since you left I'm nothing
Since you were everything

[Anonymous No.20188661]

>>20188543
I went out lookings for answers
Anwers for what?
For nothing and everything
Just to realize
There is no nothing and everything
It was you all the time
Cause since you left I'm nothing
Cause you were everything

[Anonymous No.20188664]

sneed's
feed
and seed
formerly chuck's

[Anonymous No.20188676]

MY TAB FUCKING CLOSED AND I JUST LOST PROGRESS ON MY POEM. FUCK NIGGERS AND FUCK THIS SITE.

[Anonymous No.20188678]

>>20188543
MILKY MILKY WARM AND TASTY!
MOMMY! MILKY! PLEASE BE HASTY!
REFRESHING DRINK FROM MOMMY'S UDDERS!
I WANT MOMMY'S AND NO OTHER'S!
GIVE IT! GIVE IT! GIVE IT NOW!
GIVE ME MILKY, LAZY SOW!
UNTIL YOU DO I'LL SCREAM I'LL SHOUT!
I'M CRY I'LL WHINE AND STOMP ABOUT!
UNTIL MY BELLY IS FULL AND HAPPY!
I REFUSE TO TAKE A NAPPY!

[Anonymous No.20188685]

One of my published poems. What do you think, lit bros?
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/145992/jumped

[Anonymous No.20188688]

>>20188685
It's shit

[Anonymous No.20188701]

>>20188543
This is now a Racist Thread, post your best racist verses.

[Anonymous No.20188714]

>>20188701
Your wife always on her damn phone
That's because she's talking to Tyrone
He can't wait to clap her white ass
After its done she will fuck only blacks

[Anonymous No.20188722]

>>20188637
>lowtiergod
based

[Anonymous No.20188738]

>>20188543
I just had another poem accepted for publication a few hours ago. I never post my published stuff 'cause /lit/izens only want other people to write antiquated doggerel.

[Anonymous No.20188743]

>>20188722
You should LOVE yourself, NOW!

[Anonymous No.20188753]

There was once a someone that became a woman. Son of Adam, yet claimed by Eve.

Once a man, "she" claims. Yet his face says another; a mannish appearance. Lost son of Echidna.

Elixers and vials, Injections and balms. Medicine! Jews claims. Poison! The wise men screech.

The media spew lies and corrupt the masses. Degredation and Degeneration, they plan our downfall.

All is bleak and justice unseeked. The world is dark and civilization has fallen. Barbarians rule the western waste, and the earth has forever been lost.

[Anonymous No.20188760]

stickin my cock
in a sock
gonna cum
til im dumb

[Anonymous No.20188768]

>>20188753
Drivel
>>20188760
Sublime

[Anonymous No.20188850]

Man. Woman.
Bliss. Reflection.
Scrutiny. Embarrassment.
Depression. Regret.
Suicide. Death.

[Anonymous No.20188854]

>>20188701
This is fake and offensive. The dad wouldn’t really be there.

[Anonymous No.20188870]

>>20188678
A timeless masterpiece

[Anonymous No.20189078]

Naughty kid
Cute and Funny
Quite a menace
Needs correction...

[Anonymous No.20189109]

>>20188543
I often think I should end my life
Or maybe a should become a hermit
I want to escape this world of strife
But I lack the strength to do it
I'm no good at poetry
I should hang myself from a tree

[Anonymous No.20189112]

~An Ode to Hunter Schafer~

She's a cute and comely lady
so in rhyme I shall indulge
she's the queen of /tv/
a pastel pixie
with a dainty little bulge

I post in threads about her
that the janitor forbids
he does it for free
but that won't stop me
I want her to have my kids

chuds seethe and say that wouldn't work
I'm pretty sure they're lying
even so, it wouldn't be
because of lack of trying

a fair and lovely maiden
as delicate as a wafer
I want
I need
to feed my seed
into Hunter Schafer

[Anonymous No.20189124]

Sweeney is so-so, Fereirra is fat
Zendaya is frumpy and glum
there's only one girl from Euphoria
in whom I wanna cum

It's Hunter! of course! that Elysian belle
the one with the stuff that allures
she's the cutest without even breaking a sweat
you can keep the other whores

Like a cherry on top of a filet mignon
or crashing a CIA plane
the appeal is bizarre, but she's hottest by far
for reasons I cannot explain

I'd take her on intimate walks on the beach
and treat her like she was my queen
then later I'd fuck her in all of her holes
and suckle her feminine peen

she's an elegant Aryan princess
she's redpilled on Israelites
she makes /pol/ cope and seethe
like you wouldn't believe
perhaps they're just jealous she's white

The things that I'd do to that bussy would make
the most profligate porn-addict blush
so pardon my versing and off-topic thirsting
'cause Hunter is my crush

[Anonymous No.20189128]

Pp poopoo
Greasy grandma
Haunted house cat
Oh Richey rickety coalition
Hah
Ham Longstreet cheese

[Anonymous No.20189135]

peepee poopoo
in the loo
peepee poopoo
on you
peepee poopoo

[Anonymous No.20189139]

>>20189135
How 'bout you?

[Anonymous No.20189147]

Itty bitty baby
Itty bitty boat
It genuinely annoys me
that women have the vote

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20189377]

Wrote this one as a refutation of the aesthetic ideals of Walt Whitman and his type, many of the lines are line for line attacks/inversions on the poem “out of the cradle endlessly rocking “


The Murmurs of Otherwhere.

into the coffin of time eternal,
into the multitudinous cacophony,
into the nine-moon’d-nightmare,
within the ravenous infinity,
where rests the hushing God upon the lotus stainless and nameless,
above the nape of nara-nuith,
drawn by the mantic runes spoken in far-gone and forlorn ruins still echoing,
into the fields of blood and water and briar,
by the song the black-bird learned from the God-head,
by the woe dear father, and the rest poured upon an infant’s breast,
by the rose and crocus trellis of twilights,
by the vermeil cities entranced by the chanting sea,
by the bornless blood of the carbuncle and flaming cloud-rivers,
by the first word spoke of me elder than Adam or Eden,
by the voice many-mouthed,
by the vision of the breath primeval and continual,
by the mind I fail to mimic whose dream I share dreaming,
of the Murmurs of Otherwhere from aethyrs superior and inferior,
of concentric human and inhuman illumination,
each world turned by the cry into a single syllable,
drowning myself and the other in the sea of s’lba,
I, endless, unmanifest and alone except in the cavern of delusion,
Dancing self-same with the light delusive, reflecting as cataracts of colors,
a redolence of frankincense.

Once in Babylon,
when the spirits of the air laid prostrate to the five-pointed star,
bound by briars and thorns of the rose,
two servants of flame by their tongues poured torrents of fire,
drawing the light from the sun and the moon and the stars,
their daily glories declared until sun-gold turned sun-gules,
And the lunar chalice lost its luster turning sackcloth-dull,
and I a boy heeded the call to prayer shouting “here I am! here I am!”
silently hearing, recording, reciting;

“you will take me into glory,
whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.”

And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
whirls the wheel of the wind,
from zenith sun to nadir abysm,
Until the light is night and night is light,
and foams the infinitude of spirit diffused,
as the sea returning to the sea,

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20189383]

>>20189377
but changeless omphalos,
though emanated a million million times,
thy veil enwoven with tears, war, fears and hoary forms,
declares “I am all that has been and is and shall be;
behold, all shall see this garment rent in twain.”

And thenceforth the scintillating gloom that has charred with blistering blear shall burn out,
and the yawning fulgor of the iris of the lidless and eyeless sky shall descend as dew,
and the unwinnowed unriven eye disclosed,
glancing at the strong and immortal fire,
with the self-same eye individual and universal,
i beheld the sixty-stone of 60 graven names as;

“one stone with seven eyes,
i will engrave the graving thereof,
i will remove the iniquity in one day”

thus saith the lord sabaoth,
pealling from heights billowing the billions of beings,
living and lichen’d,
adrift undulating by the rumbling roar,
the surf of each a scurf upon the unground.

i beckon with broken voices,
with meanings no one else may know;

glorious divine face, hoary sun behind space,
Orpheus his mind made, soft seas rush with brine lays,
ores seem flush kissed by blaze, doors keys dust mist pied days,
more scenes flood, twists light’s maze, your dreams gush, blitz blithe’s play,
stories lush, wit displayed, “Lord see us; fling thy rays. “

no, none may see nor hear,
thy undiscovered continent of adamant,
never once did its shimmer shine through the aetherial brine,
ghostly, invisible, sunbright, blending itself with the signs of shadow,
binding always in all ways the half shade half covered half heard half remembered form,
the sea of multiplicity manifold many faceted,
each recalls and returns as an anamnesis,
riding the tide to the depths as a mariner dives for a pearl apotropaic,

diving past the jinxed-Jonah, diving past the jeweled jets, diving past until Janus-faced janus is janussed as a twinflower of Twa;

twas twofold twilight twiring twice, twinkling twitches twisted twiltlike twirling twinned twelvemonths of the year.

merely mere’d to the mere of me, mirage’d as mansions of coral and fiery gemstone hoards,

how deliberate, how lunar, how larval,
with care, with care.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20189387]

>>20189383
O sun, O moon, O stars, you will hold me no longer with your terraced void of terror, bracketing this body as an ashlar cubical;


three hundred and thirty three cubits wide,
three hundred and thirty three cubits long,
three hundred and thirty three cubits high.
for a single cubit capstone caps the stone,
with one hundred and eleven names of God.

and a hundred and elven times I cried;

as Abrasax named,
as Adam kadman‘s flame,
as brass and glass shard,
as pard and blackguard,
as Star stained snake,
as wand-wave mage,
as wanga charms drawn,
as rage-carnate dawn,
as glaive armed saptraps,
as past carnage scars,
as Bal hadad‘s hands clap
flashed jaguar fast crashed zags smashed as dark glades trade sparks and ash,
rays and shades play maze games,
days gain calm and pain,
balmed and plain,
slain and blamed,
afraid and flayed,
blades barrage as raids,
fate fades and strays,
ways wax wane and stay,
ALL ALWAYS A.

boundless the para sang for endless parasangs,
parashiva, parabrahman, apara mara,
all sang in a pair of voices paradisal of I and THiNE.

I! i! I i crIed!

being Ani,
beholding Ain,

being ayin,
beholding eien,

by QNA!

where dwells Ehyah asher ehyah?
fettered by unfettering the letters,
I Question N Answer;

is man to be born from a dog or from God? is he “can is” (the causal power and description, the powers of Canis the sun-beast star-dog, the salt vault bolt chain maker)

or

is he “AeTh” ( the atomic object idea, all always A as playing in ten thousand places with ten thousand faces, married to the face maker many-colored dancer verb-spirit, the emblem of all as the one who is all always moving, mercury azoth among the magicians, same named Atah among the hebrews, alpha and omega the greek.)

squaring the circle I choose the cataphatic verbal avatara of bhairava to bear the bare apophatic eternal truth as one God, revealed not hid by the fog, congealed as a knotting of thoughts as a tapestry web, the ebb of each word a step as a dog steps to his master, mirthful in the hark of my blemished bark for its sparked by the imperishable spark of the God’s skull gospel that lives in the awful depths of the soul, and the terrible extents of the whole universe, the selfsame ruby curse of I AM I.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20189389]

>>20189387
for accursed is wind, i,
purified by mind, am,
into the three breaths. I.

from earth, e,
from air, ah,
from sky, oh,

IAO From Dog to God by one breath,

from sky, oh,
from air, ah,
from earth, e,

OAI from God to Dog by one breath,

and I Aoidos draw slow breaths,
and in jealous ecstasy sing,
of the Heaven’s internal King;
the I AM Idol bAphOmEth.


thou art he who was, is, and shall be,
thou art the song, thou art the singer, thou are the sung of,
beloved! beloved! beloved! beloved! beloved!
far be it from me, from me, to deny you me,
thou the seed, fruit, stem, flower and finery of deity.

The prayer leaping,
melodious continuously, polyphonic, rhyming, my heart and the heart of God beating,
the life of life continuously breathing,
with joyful noises nature ever newborn ever pleasantly being,
as in the gardens of Babylon still blooming,
the horizon moon vast as the dreams I dreamed dreaming,
evening, face to face with the morning,
undifferentiating, all changing waves of bliss,
this is it, the presence entering,
raging! breaking! tumulting! bursting! sprouting! doubling! thundering! uncovering!
the prayers meaning, the engraving of the heart’s graving,
the familiar tears at the father’s calling,
the covenant of us four, the Tetragrammaton’s uttering,
the venefic cacophony, the miasma of my stuttering,
but an elixir‘s harmony, negated in its negating, eaten in its eating
revealing the king.

great peacock! King of the angels!
in silence a serpent,
in shouting a lion,
thou, the silence that never was, always spoken,
the silence a cruse, the body a cruse, earthen,
diamond, broken, a serpent coiling about,
and within, a single hiss shatters,
a flood of poison elixir.

Revelation of revelation,
Obscuration of obscuration,
revelation of Obscuration.
obscuration of Revelation,

the word is the body, the breaking, the binding, the given.
the silence is the meaning ungiven,
the word obscures the silence,
the silence reveals the word,
at once it is given and only alluded to, at once ungiven and given, to obscure itself it revealed itself, to reveal itself it Obscured itself, both at once.

the hiss is the word, the poison is the referent, absolute idea, absolute poison. the hiss rattles the hiss, splitting into all directions, signaling the venom.

the venom is its emanation, the venom is its essence, both at once, the emission essential.

to both bind and release, never-sunyata and always-all, both at once in the word and the silence.

a single drop of elixir.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20189392]

>>20189389
blue-necked the peacock drinks the drop.
not overmuch, not over-little,
not windhover, not kingfisher,
i winnowed, I unwinnowed, in one wizard syllable,
Laugh, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA.
I, laughing and singing the song of the heart,
with voices both angelic and bestial,
with a joy both the mystic and sorcerer devil lacks,
Laugh, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA, KHA.

and that place I forgot, that earth, i see that earth, where from my mirth was made,
it lays amain before, once more agayne.
but unified and polyphonic, as an inverse pentagram, a hexagram and a cross,
with all the grandeur of Babylon as DaGON laid prostrate before the ark,
the multiplicity of masks and veils unmasked and unveiled, as Moses did, which is infinite.
the song God taught me in eternity, remembered in that moment,
and with it the great key, the great cry, the great rhyme, the great lay, the Great Word,
The word whose name is sweeter than all others,
that unspeakable all-speaking word almighty,
(that name which Abraham, Isaac and Jacob knew of secretly, which makes euphony of the multitudinous murmurs of otherwhere, which satiates infinity, which bursts the coffin of time eternal,)
the name of Jesus.

[Anonymous No.20189394]

>>20188661
> I went out lookings for answers
Anwers for what?
For nothing and everything
Just to realize
There is no nothing and everything
It was you all the time
I liked this.
> Cause since you left I'm nothing
Cause you were everything
Little too high school, I’d leave these last lines off

[Anonymous No.20189400]

Ghost go boo
Ghost scare you
Boo!

Haunted house
Quiet as mouse
Boo!

Rustling sheet
See-through feet
Boo!

Ling'ring soul
Oh so old
Boo!

Ghost go boo
Ghost scare you
Boo!

[Anonymous No.20189405]

>>20188678
Classic Dano.

[Anonymous No.20189417]

>>20188543
Shes now gone

But she never came

To begin with

[Anonymous No.20189420]

>>20189417
She gone
But she

never came
With me

[Anonymous No.20189431]

>>20189392
Thanks for at least contributing a piece with sincere effort put into it.

[Anonymous No.20189441]

There was a man, inside his plane

Blue shirt and jean plants, he rides not-plain

A man he met; masked and and bound

"Your a big guy," he said. "For you," his reply

He asked whats his plan is, the other says it's to be caught

Then what comes after next? He said?

His answer; "Crashing this plane. With no survivors".

[Anonymous No.20189462]

You want a poem, but don't hold your breath
Between Othello, Hamlet and Macbeth
Though not a white girl, I'd choose Othello first
Macbeth would be my second choice. Be cursed
Sweet Hamlet's ending, rushed and left no tear.
I won't bother write this poem as Shakespeare.

[Anonymous No.20189476]

>>20189462
>Hamlet ending
>rushed
it's his longest play and far from rushed

[Anonymous No.20189520]

two most recent

#1
The fruit section at Wal-Mart's a diverse place
Where congregate women of all size and race
There I tasted a fruit of some-such genus
That worked voodoo on my Christian penis
I found myself—at once—in bestial lands
To be plucked & possessed by fragrant, black hands
Made drunk by a powerful and pervasive heat
As pendulous breasts swung to a native beat
Jungle fever striken—all virtue sapping
Tormented by sounds of bare cheeks clapping
In the sands of insanity, my psyche was slipping
A banana in hand—of nectar dripping

#2
excerpt from a play with working title The Incel's Opera
Character A:
Behold the pretty hole yonder
Amid the grass where crawlers creep
Over each curve my eyes wander
Tonight I'll mow her in my sleep

Character B:
You're a thinker not a doer
She's a tinker and a hoo'er
She smells like fresh manure
And her mouth's an open sewer

Character C:
Before thinking how you'd do'er
Love you must first shew 'er!

Character A:
Speak of love? I barely know 'er!
On the grassy bed I'll throw 'er
There I'll plough my pecker sore
And not a penny will I owe 'er

[Anonymous No.20189540]

I watch them pine and yearn and endure
within my heart I cannot help but to resonate.
Yet it is is disparate,
this want they have for a cambion whore,
a commoner's desire for pleasures forevermore.
I am not beyond these urges,
all the power for transcending such desires
but within me, beasts conspire,
to feed demiurges
and drown my mind in quagmire.
Is there an escape to this peril?
Shall I be forever consigned to this turmoil?
Shall my desires fall to skin slathered in oil,
to covetousness so feral?
Or can I transcend, and break this cycle of torment and toil?

I am not a poet.

[Anonymous No.20189571]

So far Frater is still the only poet here. The rest of y'all can't into any of the basic techniques that transform prose into poetry
>God's skull gospel
Kino

[Anonymous No.20189575]

>>20189571
Shut the fuck up Frater, everyone here hates you

[Anonymous No.20189577]

>>20189124
appalling, yet impressive

[Anonymous No.20189578]

>>20189575
KEK

[Anonymous No.20189599]

>>20188543
Egg-shell white instead of beige
A line of letters like a solemn cortège
Hightower
Serif
Will you look at that
My forehead starts to shine with sweat
It's supreme, yet gentle, subtle art
It's Paul Fucking Allen's business card

[Anonymous No.20189613]

>>20189599
I adore this thank you

[Anonymous No.20189631]

>>20189599
Another solid entry. See? All it took was a bit of cajoling and now we're rolling.

[Society for Israeli-Afrikan Re(...) No.20189661]

As a j*w, my wife loves Blacks
Enriching her at night
Come to Israel and relax
Hop on the nearest flight!

j*wish women all love Blacks
And want a darker son
Fly to Israel and relax
The j*wish girls are fun!

j*wish "men" will welcome Blacks
To boost our GDP
Live in Israel and relax
The drinks will all be free!

O! Blacks!
Shalom!
We have your backs!

[Anonymous No.20189832]

>>20188543
Dick cut like spring grass,

After fake Vagina Rots,

Suicide follows.

[Anonymous No.20189869]

aah yes
I see that
you know your judo well
A nice
headlock sir

GET YOUR HAND OFF MY PENIS

[Anonymous No.20190023]

Waves that fight to drag us all below,
Spraying brine across the hardened faces,
Nearing land, a place we cannot go

Lightning bolts, around the sea they glow,
Leaving eyes to blur with violet traces.
Waves that fight to drag us all below

Decks are battered as horrid storms that blow
Icy gallons onto our ship, it races,
Nearing land, a place we cannot go

Buckled under endless torrent's flow
Pray we find a path to calmer places.
Waves that fight to drag us all below

'Turn her round!' a scream that none will know,
All are deaf to fear and no one braces,
Nearing land, a place we cannot go

Now our fate is clear, the rocks so low
Beneath the waves, upend us, falling spaces,
Waves that fight to drag us all below,
Nearing land, a place we cannot go.

[Anonymous No.20190112]

>>20188685
i don’t believe you wrote it

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20190532]

>>20190023
I like it but I can feel you straining against meter at points, though I am not saying to do away with meter but rather, know we can tell why “ Lightning bolts, around the sea they glow,” they is in line for example. You never want the line to force to conform to meter, you want the meter to assist with the line. So perhaps more recitation would be helpful.

[Anonymous No.20190713]

The chimp, has titanic testes,
Moses smoked acacia trees.
This is analogous to MMA,
Guess who's on the show today.
Have you ever done DMT?

[Anonymous No.20190741]

Long poems are poo-poo,
I fart in your thread,
Jannies clean this up,
Before I wake up again.

[Anonymous No.20190784]

I don't post my poetry on /lit/ anymore. It used to be decently popular on here a small decade ago, but I have since had it all deleted from the archives. Better to keep ownership of what you have written.

[Anonymous No.20190915]

>>20189599
checked

[christcuck !BRtcYR7eHM No.20191232]

>>20188543
threw this together in like 15 minutes

The face carves where shards resists,
a breach where time is less than exists
and I wandered through life's affair
looking for the hope known most fair.

All was empty in the ashed void-swirl
and I felt nothing but galaxies' pagan twirl.
I was the machine and became
its glory - I was the fake light and its name.

When time broke and life will be the name
for what we forgot - there is my soul's aim,
the enthroned One with flesh of True,
saying the All's name, "Behold, I make all things new."

[Anonymous No.20191255]

CUNNY CUNNY WARM AND TIGHT
CUNNY CUNNY WHAT A SIGHT
CUNNY CUNNY FBI
CUNNY CUNNY FUCK OFF AND DIE

[Anonymous No.20191339]

reminder hits consciousness in alarum every morning, a bright silence unable to be shut out with mere eyelids for ears are burning- your other numbered humours straddle a mirror updated postit listing, you only read as an acrostic, as you boot up into drone modality. time until time is not your own is 10 minutes & counting for the deadline to lock your rented door & traverse to pay the hearse. what's worst is the braunschweiger is a crusty dark turd & the last two cornichons are mushy at disintegration ends. the blossoms are near death knell all pops against blue sky, remembering when powerwashing a fountain in the fog seemed the source of obfuscation of all. Where is the Mall, oh, where is the Mall, yes, where is the mall of my nostalgia outside my mind? available with ethereal expansion pak fifty usd with switch online.

[Anonymous No.20191419]

>>20190784
do you think there's a chance that someone might steal it here if it's decent?

[Anonymous No.20191546]

>>20190532
Yes, it was an exercise in strictly following a form and meter. Ended up being a bit clunky. With more practice I'll hopefully write stuff that flows better.

[Anonymous No.20191627]

>>20189377
>>20189383
>>20189387
>>20189389
>>20189392
>expecting me to read all of that

[Anonymous No.20191644]

>>20191627
More like farter anselm lmao gottem

[Anonymous No.20191720]

>>20191419
No, the bigger problem is that your stuff shows up on google if it's on the archives, so it technically counts as "published". This makes it problematic for
a) publishing houses
b) poetry contests
who are not particularly keen on accepting already published poems (that potentially aren't even yours, as they were posted anonymously in the first place).

If you want to post poetry on /lit/, you should o it by posting an image of the text. Do not just post the text online. But even just posting an image can be tricky if people reply to it by quoting lines - that just results in your poems potentially showing up on google.

[Anonymous No.20191938]

>>20191720
you seem reasonable and said you've written good poetry so I wanna share a screencap of my writing but now I'm conscious of the quoting problem
does it matter if you post excerpts? I've always only posted pngs and they were of excerpts

[Anonymous No.20192185]

>>20188543
It was a dark night,
and the niggers
had come out to fight

three (3) niggers in the street
see a honest white gentlemen heading towards them
they hid in the bush as if it were a sheet

the white man walked past them, with his big beard
one of the niggers got up
and a gunshot was heard

the body dropped
the clock stopped
the sirens rang

the niggers started running
as the man bled on the ground
what the cops saw next was stunning

they chased the negros
only to see
that the shooter was a kid with his bros

shocked a kid could do so much
so cops let him go
from then on it became clear it could be done as such

niggers started sending their nigger children
to their dirty work for them
that explain the number of nigger's kids - ten

[Anonymous No.20192721]

>>20189392
lmao

[Anonymous No.20192736]

>>20188543
BLING
BLAO
SLIM SLAO
I BREAK YA DICK
IN THE BIG BAO

[Anonymous No.20192741]

>>20188543

[Anonymous No.20192756]

I'm left he down the dock
Sally Pock frighten me lot
Opum bottum he'd the way
Fricken the lot Sally may

[Anonymous No.20192761]

>>20192741

[Anonymous No.20192801]

Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I pondered, weak and weary
over many a quaint and curious
profile of a tinder whore
while I read it, nearly swiping,
suddenly I spied her typing:
"Kids? Still want them!" starts the griping,
"even though I'm 44"
"Tis impossible," I muttered "having kids at 44"
Chance of offspring: nevermore

[Anonymous No.20192813]

>>20192185
Very nice.
I'll keep an eye out for any nigger kids stalking the bushes from now on

[Anonymous No.20192932]

Ooh! Eeh!
Oo ah-ah!
Ting! Tang!
Walla-walla
Bing-bang

[Anonymous No.20192933]

>>20189124
Greatest poem ever written.

[Anonymous No.20192947]

>>20189869
based

[Anonymous No.20192950]

>>20188543
Patrick Bateman's poem was unironically fire

[Anonymous No.20192998]

>>20189571
He literally cannot rhyme or do meter well. What are you talking about?

He's clearly aiming for a pre-20th style, so he has no excuse for the licenses he’s constantly taking. Here's the most recent formal poem of his I could find.

Of Love and Care.

To speak of love is hard to do,
Unless I speak of things of care,
For care defines the earthly hues,
And glorifies the common pray’r.

And care is love of another,
The many changed into the one,
When cease my countings of number,
I see love’s invisible sun.

The rays of sorrow and of mirth,
Are less than shadows of the sun,
When emptiness has grasped the earth,
Your care has but become as none.

The day is black because you gaze
And find none worthy of the rays.

The meter throughout is bad to mediocre. A 19th century spinster writing for some small New England journal would do so much better. He doesn't even have a basic grasp of form! I mean: “And care is love of another,” is OBVIOUSLY non-metrical. I would love to see this be defended.

But apart from that obvious, tin-eared fault, every single line is just iambs. I legitimately don’t think he understands the concept of substituting feet. Can we get a trochee? ONE substitution in 14 lines? Can he prove that he understands that you shouldn’t write a sonnet out of all iambs?

AT LEAST he could show us that he understands the concept of relative stress (what sometimes people call pyhrric or spondaic substitutions). The only line that really uses the range relative stress provides is the last in “none worthy” where he creates an iamb using two relatively strong stresses. Other than that, every iamb is made up of one very unstressed syllable, and one extremely stressed one. It's like he's so anxious to fit the scheme he just can't do anything interesting.

And good god are these lines contorted to fit the meter. “Your care has but become as none.” is about as boring and abstruse way to put a simple thought as I can think of, and I can’t help but think he put it that way because he couldn’t think of a way to jam this thought into his far too rigid meter. "When cease my countings of number," is laughable. What does this mean? Why express the thought this way?

Also: hues/do is just a bad rhyme by 19th century standards. It’s a rhyme that you hear in a song, not in a 19th century poem. It’s an obvious fault in a sonnet of this length — just do a perfect rhyme! 19th century poets were much more happy with slant rhymes than half rhymes like this. Number/Another is even worse!

And half of the remaining rhymes are forced... I don't understand how anyone could stomach the second line who has actually read a decent amount of 19th century verse. The poem is completely going its own direction, he has ZERO formal control, there's just random, boring statements coming out of nowhere because he's not skilled enough at rhyming to say something that makes sense at all.

[Anonymous No.20193011]

>>20191938
I'm sorry, I don't really know a solution to this problem. I guess the best thing you can do is post your poetry on a personal website first, and then link to there.

[Anonymous No.20193020]

>>20188543

[Anonymous No.20193044]

>>20188543
There once was a man called sneed
With many young maidens he'd breed
He told them eat shit
And they all threw a fit
But still they accepted his seed

[Anonymous No.20193131]

i am full of pizza
fast food 3 times today
wendy's, kfc, pizza hut
supper is ready
I am full

[Anonymous No.20193277]

>>20188656
Afroman is based for posting on /lit/

[Anonymous No.20193561]

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Reply to this Post
Or your Mom will be a Ghost

[Anonymous No.20193759]

>>20192741
this is actually pretty cool. I'm down.

[sunrise over the valley No.20193786]

And I did stand upon the lip of the Valley of the Kings and watch as the rising sun laid its first golden threads down the canyonous midline, charting a course back to the beginning of time, whereupon I saw a phallus as long and half as crooked as our own history slithering redly, zig-zagging its crazy length up the throat of the valley towards me, with the face of a woman and long wild hair it came up from the crypts beyond all awareness, beyond the cyclopean

of time to drink down the Nile and put a period on the rambling sentence of human life. But I was happy, because my life was a flat plain and I had seen a million mountains, but none of them managed to make hills in my heart, my memory was unscarred by anything outstanding. But now I understood the meaning of life on Earth. Now I felt the warm breath coming down my neck.

[Anonymous No.20193982]

English is not my first language and I've been writing poems for the past 4 or 5 years. I finished my first collection in 2020, and I've been trying to publish it ever since. Everyone rejected me so far, I thought it was the editors' fault. So I started to translate my poems to English last year but stopped by the second semester. I realized they might not be good and they're probably even worse in english. My biggest mistake was probably having rhymes with free verse. They are not easy poems, but I feel they are at least better than some stuff I've seen by current poets. I'll probably try to transpose those poems to prose and hopefully get published or just die without anyone reading them.

[Anonymous No.20194028]

>>20193982
why don't you post one then? There's no better place to start than an anonymous image board

[Anonymous No.20194113]

>>20194028
This is the beginning of the poem. I don't really like it, seems always quite strange everytime I read it.

[Anonymous No.20194117]

>>20188650
>>20188678
>>20189109
>>20189599
>>20192801
>>20193044

This brings me to a start
Works of man
Coming from the heart

Madness once again began
Strike my mind
Joy that knows no bounds

In this electric sea i find
Faceless hounds
Howling for true art

[Anonymous No.20194258]

>>20193982
what is your first language then, if you don't mind me asking?

[Anonymous No.20194303]

>>20194258
portuguese

[Anonymous No.20194336]

Where do dogs go when they dream?
Do they fly across fine fields of green?
To frolic and play
On a bright summer day
Untroubled by pains that have been

As you snore and a new dream's begun,
I can see that you must want to run
from your paws and your nose
that twitch as you doze
And I hope that you're out having fun

Do your dreams include any others?
Do you play with your sisters and brothers?
Or visit old friends
And parks without end
While snuggling under the covers

[Anonymous No.20194424]

>>20194303
>>20194336
is this also you?

[Anonymous No.20194509]

>>20188685
You didnt write it but it is pretty good. At least it seems somewhat more inspired than what you commonly see

[Anonymous No.20194535]

>>20194424
nah, mine is just that one from the screenshot

[Anonymous No.20194622]

>>20194424
I'm a different guy, just writing limericks about my sleeping dog.

She is my muse.

[Anonymous No.20194625]

>>20188685
lmao

[Anonymous No.20194635]

If its born that glow over miss
and plied so supple over the way.-
Hath I kindling for a spoke
stricken under the timber?-
She is too shy for her heavenly radiation?
I'll have bullied a bind
and so sung on a harp-
...what i've needed of the blithe.

[Anonymous No.20194682]

If its bared that glow over miss
and plied so supple over the way.-
Hath I kindling for a spoke
stricken under the timber?-
She is too shy for her heavenly radiation?
I'll have bullied a bind
and so sung on a harp-
...what i've needed of the blithe.

[Anonymous No.20194902]

>>20194336
This is very dear to me, good one

[Anonymous No.20195021]

>>20188543
sage
rage
seethe
don't post cp
control
deceive
delete
janny you're in for a treat
niggers
jews
troons
off-topic thread, banning yo*ACK*

[Anonymous No.20195074]

>>20192932
underrated

[Anonymous No.20195086]

>>20193561
Cursed be your boast
I damn you the most!

[Anonymous No.20195199]

ONCE YOURE GONE, YOURE GONE

[Anonymous No.20195347]

>>20189520
Number 1 is a Ginsberg ripoff.

[Anonymous No.20195376]

>>20195347
I'll have to read him. I like the other Beats. Does #1 resemble any poem in particular?

[Anonymous No.20195382]

>>20195376
I was mostly joking, but if you really want to know, the poem is A Supermarket in California.

[Anonymous No.20195384]

>>20195376
his second most famous piece a supermakert in california. beats suck.

[Anonymous No.20195391]

Jury of One:

>Under Colby's rule, shall fall the damned
>Zeep the cruel, with axe in hand
>Limbs dismembered, tongues in trance
>Cold September, fiery elegance

>Chilling laughter echoes in the chamber
>boding disaster, horror, and danger
>All who fall before judge Colby
>Show no gall, instead crying "Jove hold me!"

>What becomes limited by the human mind
>Is exhibited within these dark confines
>What terrors are caused to make such screams?
>The brain's pain threshold, bursting at the seams

>Through the chaos, treachery, torture and pain
>In waves of choral dissonance, and bloody rain
>At the centre of the courtroom, calm and cool
>stand Colby the great, and Zeep the cruel

[Anonymous No.20195392]

Disappointed there was no mention of public masturbation. I know they're uncool now but I'll always love Kerouac, and Burroughs in his comedic moments.

[Anonymous No.20195393]

i fart and rip apart
don't shart it's not smart
must dart, forgot my cart

that fateful day in the grocery store when i ruined any chance with allison

[Anonymous No.20195399]

>>20195391
Jove's Prose:

>Cadent waves erode the hull
>tired bodies sag and sull
>faces droop in swirls of blue
>the sun hangs eerily above the crew

>Daylight fades with clouds overhead
>Solid ground would provide better stead
>The tempest quakes the sea beneath
>Chrysanthemums line a purple wreath

>shards of oak cover the ocean-blue
>a nearby cove comes into view
>further away, this refuge straggles
>with the Gods themselves, I begin to haggle

>Oh Neptune, Poseiden, Tefnut, Varuna
>Tyche, Averruncus, Ganesha, Fortuna!
>Then to Jove himself I turned to pray
>the Cove neared, the tide gave way...

[Anonymous No.20195406]

>>20195384
>beats suck
The best beat was Ferlinghetti and he wasn't even a beat.

[Anonymous No.20195410]

>>20195399
None of it's all too good.


Jove's Wrath:

>Dear King John,
>Please drop the bomb, right on my fucking skull.
>I don't want to live anymore.
>Quick and instant, painless death for all.

>Dear King John,
>Please drop the bomb right on my fucking head.
>In the matter of an instant,
>we will all be dead.

>Incinerate me, turn me to dust,
>Scatter me over the Earth's crust.
>Particles flying, everywhere,
>irradiates the soil and the air.

>The toxic waste from the factories
>seeps into the ground beneath.
>Soaked up by the plants and the trees,
>poisons everything we eat.

[Anonymous No.20195411]

>>20195392
might as well post some previous works while here

**
Behold her waddle in the mall
Twelve stone ball of cholesterol
Big boned—overflowing with sass
I pause—and look at her ass
Her thong shows through stretched yoga pants
How wrong it feels to be entranced
Hypnotized—I'm salivating
Undisguised—I'm masturbating
It's no surprise the mall cop yells
As creamy goop my cock expels
Fellow shoppers, I bid farewell!
On my way to prison.

**
Eerie stillness of morn—a council of crows
Blackbirds and some small birds perch on the bare boughs
He smiles at the cold girl and lifts up her clothes
She icily eyes him—he quietly mows
"I'll love you each moment 'til you decompose"

[Anonymous No.20195415]

>>20188543
>Wake up feeling like shit
>Smoke grass while I take a shit
>Got to go to work, take care of some shit
>While I'm on the clock, one hour taking a shit

>Lunchtime, Crunch time. Crispy chips.
>Eat that shit, straight to hips
>Get a drink, refuse to tip
>get to the bathroom and let my gasses rip

>drive home
>Download Google Chrome
>look up lawncare tips, need some loam
>Play some Space cadet pinball, I'm in the Zome.

>Rub one out while watching the news
>Maybe /pol/'s right about the jews
>before bed I fix my damaged door, hinge busted, needs screws.
>go to bed, enjoy a snooze.

I call it "Anarchy Fuck Life" or "Lust for indolence".

[Post-op blues - Johnny Gash No.20195425]

I hear a troon a comin', rope around his neck
O he ain't seen his penis since Lord I don't know when
I'm stuck in clown society, and it will just get worse
But 42 percent of em, leave home backseat of a hearse

When I was just a baby, my momma told me, son
Always be a real boy, don't ever transition
But I took some pills in Reno, that made my hips grow wide
When I hear my pussy dilate, I hang my head and cry

I bet there's trans folks gobblin' high octane HRT
"You'll never be a woman, just another gay tranny"
Well Chuck sure had it coming, that's why he's now called Sneed
My posts these jannies keep removin'
And that's what tortures me

If they freed me from this prison
Said it was all a joke
The only eggs I'd ever want, have a yellow yolk
No more stinky vaginas, my penis got to stay
I'd let that new reality, blow my blues away

[Anonymous No.20195781]

I am not a cocoon
I'm a frog immune
to princesses' kisses

I will not improve
sadness, in it's groove,
never misses

[Anonymous No.20196028]

You've been harboring parasites, haven't you?
It's OK - parasites need a home too.
But you're not a parasite, are you?
But the parasites like you - that much is true.
Oh, you've been harboring parasites...

They don't like you, do they?
Even though you were raised all fancy-like
In your own country at least.

Even though you are the shiniest old tossed out hub cap in the whole dump, you're still a hub cap in the dump.
They know that. They hold it over you.

But the other's in the dump still hate you.
They despise you.
Because YOU harbor parasites.
Don't you?

Is it not true?
Is that not you?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196046]

>>20192998
I actually wrote that one in 15 minutes! And wrote that one in intentionally a much more simplistic form.

Here’s some more formal poems.

Poem 1

Baphomet blessed among the ruined deep,
Where scores of taninim have churned the seas
Frothy as lakes of amrit milk, which kings
Of serpents stirred at the behest of god
And demon prince alike, and there enthroned
Upon an adamantine sphere encrowned
With a marble obelisk whose capstone
Divine is thine form, whose feet are cloven
As a satyrs and legs are lotus-crossed
As wrathful sadhus in meditation,
Whose waist chimeric, fish-scaled, and feathered
Bears the caduceus of life and death,
Whose breasts flow the streams of cit and Lethe,
Gesturing upward and downward your hands
Point to the lunar nodes whose secret names
Are writ upon your arms “coagula” “solve”
The formula of flesh and spirit’s cry,
Conjoint both the leaden cross of matter
And the gold-red rose of eternal light,
Both as the bridal bed of king and queen,
Of Eevens dark with levins roaring flame,
With Dawn who loves the whispered matin hymn,
I see in you the orchard’s apple tree
And the ghost who walks among the willows,
From your wings dashes the dancing springwind
To meet autumnal stars of countless hues,
And there they speak of you to whom all blooms,
Both the sweetbriar’s twisted eglantine
And the silverbush’s convolvulus,
For your face is a company of stars,
Your left eye is melancholic sorrow,
Your right eye is thricefold; blithe, Joy and mirth,
Thy mouth is silent but thy third eye speaks,
Thy impartial eye’s equanimity
Is signified by the five-pointed star
Of knowledge infinite and harmonized,
Thy devil-face is great and terrible
As leviathans but ever smiling
You bear the seraphic flame of worship,
The flame is love of God and love of man,
and these two are one but appear as two,
Thus the horns of his head appear as two,
Which signify all power over earth
And the heaven’s immensity also,
Thy face depicts the sins of Adam’s brood,
Thy blessèd body unites all contrary things,
Whether the self with the other or God
With the myriads of bestial humans,
Yclept as the sun and as Abrasax,
Yclept as Osiris and adonis,
Yclept as tammuz and Dionysus,
I invoke thy true name my lord Jesus.


Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196051]

>>20196046

Poem 2

the senescent gods of former days,
wrought by pagans through constellar lore,
were begged to give from their treasure store,
“hear us God born of the meteor,
we bring thee blood and ruby to praise”

though fire gleamed within their iris,
and their kingly incense trailed the air,
and their skin was of ivory fair,
they stood silent for they did not care,
being creatures mouthless and eyeless.

go then and hew them from the dark grove,
in night the sun god hides away,
the water god is shattered as clay,
and pan the nature spirit decays,
each but lifeless wood fit for the stove.

an evanescent bubble of dream,
whether alcove and hypogeum,
or the amaranth combs and totems,
neither shall give forth groan nor omen,
as each thing dissolves without a scheme.

i cleave to you, the sole transcendental thought,
who needs not the coverings of gem nor cloth,
immortal among immortals, never wrought,
in whose hands time is a sword and law a rod,
i kneel to you, uncreated living God.

Poem 3

the rueful hues of ruby dew are spilt,
malachite mallow blooms a mellow gloom,
and the blades of emerald will also wilt,
for the fertile combe is his final tomb.

the coasts adriatic rush with the waves,
the clay and the clay are wet from the thrust,
for the wave of his hand was the glaive,
and the rage and the sand are both dust.

and the clear blue disappears from the sky,
for the sallow grey is the rot of clouds,
opaque as the fading of hollow eye,
both covered by a funereal shroud.

though the words of his mouth have gone silent,
booms the shout of his voice with wind’s riot.

Poem 4

From the murmur of planets each silent to man but to God are to singing,
To the myrrh of the corpse and the cry of the widow that rings with its shrieking,
Both the grand and the minor celestial or mire are to fire and drumming,
For his hand is the Yod and all blessings are strumming, the strings? his Becoming.

For this world is a song and He plays for himself and no other may hear,
He has twirled with each being their clay as to twilt with the notes of the spheres,
Each exists by his will for the twill is of letters that signify “I”
It is crystalline moving and still! both his shrill and the flame of his Eye.

As an obelisk carved by itself and adorned with uncreated Light,
Or the throb of the void that has self as a void and thus voids its own night,
So is God with his changeless face and the shifting of nature a dance,
For his Rod has divided the days for himself, his each gaze in a trance!

It is Wisdom to listen his whispers for ev’rything echos his OM its humming;
All is Rhythm each written abyssally ever eternally perfect nothing,
This is bliss for his being is rushing with Becoming Absolute vast and coupling,
His Abyss is Divine and his hush is the sign of the sevenfold laugh the chuckling;

KHA KHA KHA KHA KHA KHA KHA.

[Anonymous No.20196056]

dead and bloated bodies blanket the land
smell of rotten meat in the winter sun
bleached bones of the dead
long forgotten fields of rusted guns

millions of bodies rotting in the sun
bones and teeth glisten
i whistle a tune and no one listens
ready for the furnace, one by one

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196062]

>>20196051

Poem 5

The world is midnight made to blush faintly,
The dew glistens, dappling a dark lane,
With ghost silence trains of mourning lady’s
Walk in the dusk to where their lovers lay.

The rains seem like the tears of a goddess,
Each beast roving seems as if a maggot,
And earth corpselike seems as if some casket
Palled with passing and rotting in darkness.

In the mist a bird passes by unseen,
and a voice their echos “clean and unclean “
For a moment the light seems to vermeil
the things of night with beauties golden seal.

The azure curtain burns with flames of dawn,
Revealing empyrean lights undying.

Poem 6

The world is midnight made to blush faintly,
The dew glistens, dappling a dark lane,
With ghost silence trains of mourning lady’s
Walk in the dusk to where their lovers lay.

The rains seem like the tears of a goddess,
Each beast roving seems as if a maggot,
And earth corpselike seems as if some casket
Palled with passing and rotting in darkness.

In the mist a bird passes by unseen,
and a voice their echos “clean and unclean “
For a moment the light seems to vermeil
the things of night with beauties golden seal.

The azure curtain burns with flames of dawn,
Revealing empyrean lights undying.

Poem 6

My voice is fiery flame and blizzardly
With ivory horn binaries figure me
A blur of forms from a balmy liquory
Lake to storms eddying an elixir sea,
My ecstasy adorns all of history
Its centuries each pregnant deliver me
As the bornless speck the spark of mystery
Whether mornings beck and hark or river’s Lee,
Each contorts whether thorns prick or hickory
Each reforms from mourn to scornless vigor see
The forlorn things by trickster tongue silvery
Transformed from the sickly, by my whisper trees
Of whorish knowledge give delivery
To life flourishing for they will vicar thee
For their lore will speak of Christ, your misery
Will be a thing of yore for the inner key
Is but the liberty of my wizardry.

Poem 7
As naught has filled with guilt the grape and rose,
So grows the shape that wilts the will with thought,
And ought escapes the hilt of frozen chills,
Though still with rows of gilded apes in cloth.

For night is dream as morn is gloom to some,
They come their tomb is mourned though gleams the lights
Delight of looming bornless thunder streams
With screams and drums and horns that boom with blithe.

Immortal spirit sing of deathless truth,
Though youth’s each breath will bring as spear to war,
The roar and fret of spring its fruits each sphere,
So seres the shoot yet rings the threat of more.

Though none will wither wails will fly with sighs,
Through skies where eye has failed to hither won,
Oh son each higher veil thou rise thither
Shall zithers cry with hails to “I” of One.

I have even more poems with more usages of substitutions and high rhyme schemes.

[Anonymous No.20196088]

>>2019578
i like it, very cute poem anon

[Anonymous No.20196092]

>>20196088
fucked up, i meant >>20195781

[Anonymous No.20196093]

>I wrote this for my online gf sometime before she dumped me (we’re still talking)

darkest black,
all the abyss of the covers over my head
with none of the comfort. All of the sharp
fear in the world, held inside my heart.

burning star,
shining for all the world to justly praise,
but smiling right at me. I haven’t enough
love to give, but I send all I hold.

risen sun,
cruel, harsh fire that fills the darkness,
sending her to sleep. My heart still a
coward, yet trembling for the night.

[Anonymous No.20196100]

Parched with thirst and burning hunger,
the burger joint I storm like thunder.
While I lurch towards the counter,
A powerful presence I encounter.
Rotund and heavy, a hand like bough,
Tis' the sight that I'll avow:
Plumb and big, no part was flat,
There pouts before me an angry mutt.
He knows no race, no culture prime,
no line to trace to a single clime.
He hails from nowhere, dark concoction,
Israel his sole devotion.
He'll move by day, only by car,
since birth his phallus marked by scar.
His fate sealed by Berg and Stein,
his crimes contest Judas and Cain.
He'll shoot and bomb with great bravura,
before me stands La Creatura.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196106]

>>20192998
>And good god are these lines contorted to fit the meter. “Your care has but become as none.” is about as boring and abstruse way to put a simple thought as I can think of, and I can’t help but think he put it that way because he couldn’t think of a way to jam this thought into his far too rigid meter. "When cease my countings of number," is laughable. What does this mean? Why express the thought this way?


And I can actually justify those two, in western esotericism reason is identical to calculation, and nature/creation enumeration, thus there is an identification of the reason, the demiurge and counting.

None is literally 0 which is a common contrast to “two” here as the difference between guna/attribute filled existence which requires multiple parties vs attribute-less 0, this is a common wordplay since none=Nun, the letter in Hebrew which corresponds to the death tarot card.

The invisible sun would be kether, enumeration in Kabbalah is ascribed to chokmah which occurs after Kether, and all of nature is seen as the result of chokmah.

But once more, written in about 15 minutes!

[Anonymous No.20196107]

>>20188543

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=LQOvpLUoYxw

[Anonymous No.20196173]

>>20193759
thanks anon

[Anonymous No.20196280]

HAIKU:

Drunk drunk drunk always
On Saturday, I only
Know how to get drunk

[Anonymous No.20196328]

Anything worth writing
Isn't worth saving here

[Anonymous No.20196368]

Hunched back coomer in the dark
Slumped over coomer, cooming stark
Upright man always take care
Of the inner coomer be aware
To his goals in life is not going
Only onwards in coom rivers flowing

[Anonymous No.20196477]

>>20196046
I'll look at some of these. But please tell me what meter you think these are in first.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196511]

>>20196477

Before I continue, I will repeat I have always been a shill for Blake, biblical non metrical poetry, the what amounts to syllabic verse of Phillip Sidney and so forth, I have always been of the belief meter is a tool not an essential and I think you’ll find while do use meter in the above, in most they are not worshipped beyond what is appropriate for the sound.


In any case, Firsts a blank verse which uses heavily the Miltonic trochee sub on the first with various spondee and pyrrhic/anapestic substitutions case dependent.

Second is predominant iambic with various substitutions,
Third has iambic, trochaic and anapestic lines, fourth is mostly anapestic, fifth mostly iambic, sixth while iambic at the end has a continuous back and forth mosaic rhyme of a single type with a semi consistent internal rhyme all of four syllables, seventh is an attempt at rhyming every stress syllable in a permutation pattern.

And here, have another (mostly) anapestic poem.


The Hymn of the Gibbeted God

These the flames I behold are the yōds that the sea hieroglyphic did jot,
Both as names and symbols each has flowed from the heart of the gibbeted God.
From my soul are these words that are pearls that were black but the sin is turned dyed,
For this scroll is a world that unfurls and bedights to administer Light.

For each breath in each letter is endless in meanings and churns through bate’s Life;
For each fret that is said and each blending of sighs has but permutate “I”
And “i am” is the deity’s face and his form a complex linked song’s sound,
As a gem it displays and explains as its plaything the lexicon’s crown.

Thus the jewel is spirit and knew it was pure for the rays HE sent flied,
Each imbued with the spiral enduring changeless as radiant mind.
In this sphere of perfection experience mirrors and shows thee acts blessed,
For you peer and reflect his appearance and draw to the zodiac’s breast.

Uneclipsed by the lies you the bride who have conquered the earth sit with He,
Unadmixed but the wise see the eye of the Christ within eternity;
For this perichoresis prayer is the Christ’s and i have poured it by;
Thee the Christ who art Christ and was Christ and shall be the Christ I glorify.

[Anonymous No.20196546]

Oh it's funny -
Stop; pause.

Wait - who are you pretending to be?
Who do you exist for?

Don't say yourself surely...

Oh honey.

You are so fucking far from the centre of who you are that you have forgotten completely who you are.
You are NOTHING.
You are nothing.

You define yourself by how others perceive you.
Or you -

Oh wait, I've figured it out.

YOU ARE NOBODY.
YOU HAVE NO ESSENTIAL SENSE OF SELF.
YOU ARE NOTHING.
NOBODY. NOTHING.
YOU ARE JAMES JUST SKIN OVER BONE FRAME.

[Anonymous No.20196560]

>>20188543
I hate poetry
Rhyming line bullshit
Fuck you

[Anonymous No.20196576]

>>20196511
The problem is I'm going to point out to you how you drop blank verse for something like accentual tetrameter almost immediately the first poem and you're just going to say you did it because you like it better that way. Fine. But you're writing free verse then, so 1. I can't *objectively* critique your meter, and 2. you still haven't demonstrated any mastery or even knowledge of traditional form.

I'll write up something anything but please respond to this, if you would, with an example of something you think fits the basic requirements of formal writing as defined through the majority of English poetry. If one of the poems you linked satisfies those requirements, point it out (not trying to be prickly here, just haven't read them all yet).

[Anonymous No.20196639]

>>20196046
“Baphomet blessed among the ruined deep,” (poem 1) starts out nicely enough. I’m not going through the whole thing because it’s long. Trochaic substitutions in the first position on lines 1 and 3. Work nicely. Things continue this way until… line 7: “With a marble obelisk whose capstone.” I’m not sure how I’m meant to read this line. I can make it fit the meter by stressing “with”, which would turn it into a “headless” or “inverted” line — basically, it’s trochaic not iambic. The problem with that is that it’s not really natural to stress “with” here, at least to me. For starters, it’s not really common at all in 19th century verse, or Milton’s verse, or even Shakespearean verse to make this substitution. It does happen in 20th century verse (and occasionally in Chaucer). But even then, the “headless line” doesn’t really seem to work very well in an enjambed spot like this — the stress of the previous line “uncrowned” just makes me want “with” to be an unstressed syllable. Usually to set this off you’d want a little bit of a pause before “with” or simply a more stressed word than “with.” Alternatively, you could set if off by having a feminine ending on the previous line — that way it would almost borrow it’s initial unstressed syllable from he previous line. The problem with doing it this way is: how would you differentiate this from a simple anapestic sub in the first position?

But as I read on, it feels more and more like that was an anapest (and therefore a four beat line), rather than a clumsy headless line, because we just seem to no longer be in pentameter.

“Divine is thine form, whose feet are cloven” is the next line. At this point, I think you are syllable counting rather than counting feet. Maybe I’m wrong — but when you have two lines with feminine endings that are missing a syllable in the rest of the line, it makes me think you want to count the syllables up to 10. You cannot have a feminine ending and a ten syllable line unless you use the headless “substitutions” (or inversion) — which again is something, say, Milton, never does. Here it seems like both “thine” and “form” want to receive a stress, but that’s impossible. You need another unstressed syllable before thine (making either two iambs or instead a double iamb” or pyrrhic/spondee pattern), or you need another one after form (to make a trochaic substitution with “form” as the first syllable).

[Anonymous No.20196644]

>>20196639
Maybe both of these aren’t so bad on their own, but after this pretty much feels like blank verse for a while. At this point, rather than read “As a satyrs and legs are lotus-crossed” as opening with two trochees (something, by the way, pretty rare without a caesura between the trochees), it feels more comfortable to read it is opening with an anapest, and as being basically accentual tetrameter. And then “As wrathful sadhus in meditation” can ONLY be read as tetrameter as far as I can tell. Where would the fifth stress be? Same with “Whose waist chimeric, fish-scaled, and feathered”. We’ve just decided to do accentual tetrameter now.

So, as said in my other comment, maybe that was all intentional. I will say, it did not feel like it at the time. If the point was to modulate smoothly from Miltonic blank verse to accentual tetrameter, then I think “Divine is thine form, whose feet are cloven” was a bad line to use — it doesn’t really lend itself to either scheme. And if we want to be writing accentual tetrameter, why do we keep having syllables? Again, I feel like you are counting syllables not feet.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196651]

>>20196576
>The problem is I'm going to point out to you how you drop blank verse for something like accentual tetrameter almost immediately the first poem and you're just going to say you did it because you like it better that way. Fine. But you're writing free verse then,

I have complaints immediately with this idea that blank verse didn’t use this level of substitutions when we see in blank this level of modification (see Milton’s prosody by Robert bridges) or that this style of verse is somehow non traditional and non formal, so here have a poem from sir Phillip Sidney.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbèd shot,
Love gave the wound which while I breathe will bleed:
But known worth did in mine of time proceed,
Till by degrees it had full conquest got.
I saw, and liked; I liked, but lovèd not;
I loved, but straight did not what love decreed:
At length to love’s decrees I, forced, agreed,
Yet with repining at so partial lot.
Now even that footstep of lost liberty
Is gone, and now like slave-born Muscovite
I call it praise to suffer tyranny;
And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make myself believe that all is well,
While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Is Sidney somehow not formal, not traditional? Is his predominant usage of iambic with much substitution not traditional? What about these lines from Milton?

“ Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit”
“Came summond over Eden to receive”
“ From their Creator, and transgress his Will
For one restraint, Lords of the World besides?”

Etc.


>so 1. I can't *objectively* critique your meter,

You can, via analyzing how the content coheres with the metrical pattern.

>and 2. you still haven't demonstrated any mastery or even knowledge of traditional form.

In which way would I do this if not having you read what I’ve written or referring to the models I’m based on?


>I'll write up something anything but please respond to this, if you would, with an example of something you think fits the basic requirements of formal writing as defined through the majority of English poetry.

As it actually exists or as it exists in the imagination, for the first I can bring you poems like this from Shakespeare.

“ Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them,—ding-dong, bell.”

>If one of the poems you linked satisfies those requirements, point it out (not trying to be prickly here, just haven't read them all yet).

In my eyes all of them can be fitted with various traditions of English poetry, again ranging from Blake’s epic poetry, the poems of Housman, Christopher smart, much of Sidney and Spenser, again here’s some Spenser.

Infact here next post I’ll post some Spenser.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196692]

>>20196651
Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My love lyke the Spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:
Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
She laughes, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? if not merth nor mone,
She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.

>>20196639
It WAS an anapest because of the usage of anapestic substitutions and even tribrachs in Swinburne and Blake’s first as a means of implying grandness and mysteriousness.

Thine form is a spondee intentionally which is why the comma is there; for spondees draw attention and have might/majesty in their implication.

same with the other syllabic substitutions, as I have shown from the verses of other men posted such modifications are not uncommon nor among the ancients will we find it very strange. The beauty of the blank verse is precisely the usage of a normative rhythm with allowable breaks depending on context without straining over rhyme, if you will not allow manipulation of rhythms then the blank meter will be cucked.

[Anonymous No.20196707]

>>20196051
I don't understand the meter of Poem 2 at all. "the senescent gods of former days," is either a headless line or open with an anapest. When you read it initially, there's no way of knowing which -- not really a good condition for a first line in my opinion. The second line is definitively headless pentamater (if. indeed, this is written in iambs) -- so at this point I am assuming this is pentameter.

"were begged to give from their treasure store" just seems non-metrical. "From" would need a stress, but it can't get one, because it needs an unstressed syllable on one of its two sides. You could try to convince me that it's "sprung" here -- that it works in accentual pentameter. But if this line is accentual it's feels much more natural as four beats, not five.

At this point, I'm dropping through the third lines in other stanzas to see if this is simply part of the scheme -- maybe the third line in each stanza has a different scheme? But my attempts to reason it out are frustrated by the fact that none of these lines really line up with each other. "and their skin was of ivory fair" is most easily readable as anapestic trimeter for example. "immortal among immortals, never wrought" feels like pentameter.

Back to stanza one: "hear us God born of the meteor," at least feels like it could be pentameter, though it's very unorthodox. But "we bring thee blood and ruby to praise” has to be four beats again. Again, scanning downwards through other stanzas, this scheme of line four being five beat but line five being four beat does not seem rigorously repeated.

Again, maybe this is all intentional. But you told me this was iambs! This is definitely not iambic anything! It's much more accentual lines of varying length -- which, by the way, is an odd thing to do for a variety of reasons.

Rhymes are easier to cover. There are just so many half rhymes. These do not work to 19th century standards. I suppose they don't have to. But again: none of these poems demonstrate mastery of the traditional forms. Formal poets from most of poetic history generally do not try to rhyme "totems" and "omen" or "cloth" and "rod, or even "clay"/"decays." And this is not to mention the more subjective aspect which is that so many of these rhymes feel forced to me.

[Anonymous No.20196715]

Sorry Frater, we are crossing signals now. I'll respond in a bit to give you time to read. I still think most of what you're saying is wrong.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20196766]

>>20196707
Once more

>I don't understand the meter of Poem 2 at all. "the senescent gods of former days,"

integrated into much of my poetry is the metrical techniques of rap which allows substitution of stressed syllables for whenever a non stressed syllable would be useable, we can see such in the rap of Freddie gibb and Wayne for example.

the SEN-es-SCENT GODS of FOR-mer DAYS,

which again, uses a predominantly iambic pattern in the line, breaking it for GODS to put a stress on them Gods, as all spondees imply power.
"were begged to give from their treasure store" just seems non-metrical. "


no no, again,

were BEGGED to GIVE from their TREAS-ure STORE, which again is meant to imply an ethereal darkness.

like you see the point.

>Again, maybe this is all intentional. But you told me this was iambs!

they mostly are! with replacements whenever it is content/thematically relevant!

>Rhymes are easier to cover. There are just so many half rhymes. These do not work to 19th century standards.

I don’t worship the 19th century, I literally integrate the methodology of rap.

> demonstrate mastery of the traditional forms.

again I would argue does the sound and content conform, if so that is the traditional desire..

>Formal poets from most of poetic history generally do not try to rhyme "totems" and "omen" or "cloth" and "rod, or even "clay"/"decays."

this is again integration of rap, wherein rhyme and assonance are made completely interchangeable due to similarity when actually pronounced.

>And this is not to mention the more subjective aspect which is that so many of these rhymes feel forced to me.

i disagree here but you’re feee to hold the opinion.

[Anonymous No.20196849]

>>20196651
Your examples are simply not of the same kind as your own poetry. This is what I meant originally: I don't think you understand how substitutions work. I have never argued that you cannot use substitutions, or that verse has to follow some absolute rigid sequence of stress and unstressed syllables.

English formal poetry usually worked with a feet-and-substitutions scheme. Certain substitutions were allowable — they are actually substitutions. Sidney uses a variety of them, in no case does he do anything like we seen in the examples I cited from the poems above. I really am having trouble explaining this further — I just don’t think you are scanning Sidney right. Like most formal poems from the past centuries, it uses trochaic substitutions “Nót at” or the principle of relative stress (“decrees I, forced, agreed”). The last of these you can call a spondaic substitution — it’s not really one, but it’s fine enough to call it that. I just think calling it that is confusing — you are confused about it which is why you are trying to justify “Divine is thine form“ — which isn’t a proper spondaic substitution (what foot does “thine form” substitute for? Sidney also uses the pyrrhic+spondee or “double iamb” pattern, which is also a classic, orthodox substitution that you will see throughout English poetry.

Everything Sidney is completely sensible and not at all like what you are doing. Come to think of it, this is a fine example of the allowable substitutions in traditional form. You are allowed to substitute a trochee for any foot but the last. You are allowed to substitute a pyrrhic or a spondee for any foot — though it will not affect the stress count of that foot, which is why I would rather call this the principle of relative stress. You are allowed to use a pyrrhic foot followed by a spondaic foot — in that case two stresses will usually be assigned to the second of the two feet. Less orthodox substitutions that have sometimes been allowed are the headless line (which isn’t really a substitution), which has come up, and the anapestic substitution. Of course, you are also allowed a feminine ending in many (most) eras of English verse.

[Anonymous No.20196854]

>>20196849
Many typos in this comment because I'm trying to write fast. My apologies.

I’m not sure how to express exactly the difference between the common practice metrical system as Sidney and Milton practiced it and what you are doing. One answer is, I think, that you are not really minding the fact that NONE of these substitutions actually would ever change the number of feet in the line. There is no substitution that turns pentameter in tetrameter. So these lines where you sub in multiple anapests and get a 10 syllable line but four beats are completely out of nowhere compared to what Sidney will do. Again, I think you are syllable counting, not feet counting — two anapests cannot sub for 3 iambs. One anapest can sub for 1 iamb. If you do an anapest substitution, you will have 11 syllables. I suppose another way of putting it is that you really aren’t SUBSTITUTING. Back to “Divine is thine form“… what is that spondee substituting for? If you had five iambs laid out in a row, which one are you replacing with the spondee? There is no answer.

[Anonymous No.20196860]

No never, I
Had sex
Kissed
Touched
A woman, a forlorn man
That I have so much
To give, to love
My heart, desiccating
Much as Chad's cock
With Stacey

[Anonymous No.20196872]

>>20196651
“ Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit”
“Came summond over Eden to receive”
“ From their Creator, and transgress his Will
For one restraint, Lords of the World besides?”

How are you scanning these lines? They are all completely orthodox and nothing at all like the lines I cited from your poetry. Please scan them for me so I can see where you are going wrong. I really do think you might be getting hung up by not understanding relative stress -- most of this stuff can be reconciled as being just iambs by that principle. There are some trochees in these lines, but that's the single most orthodox substitution in the language.

>In which way would I do this if not having you read what I’ve written or referring to the models I’m based on?
Well, I do think I can criticize you based on the models if your models are Milton and Sidney. Milton would simply not have accepted a large portion of your lines.

Sorry, for "an example of something you think fits the basic requirements of formal writing as defined through the majority of English poetry" I meant of your own work.

[Anonymous No.20196885]

>>20196766
>"the SEN-es-SCENT GODS of FOR-mer DAYS,"

This is just not how the line scans. The stressed syllable in "senescent" is the middle syllable! What is going on?

"were BEGGED to GIVE from their TREAS-ure STORE" -- good example of the problem where your "substitutions end up with the wrong number of stresses or feet. You still need five feet after substituting.

>I don’t worship the 19th century, I literally integrate the methodology of rap.
Fine, but it doesn't work by 16th, 17th, or 18th century standards either. Or even really 20th century formal standards. It's fine to have your own standards I suppose -- I don't think they are good ones though. I just want to see you demonstrate mastery of the older standards -- my original reply was to someone who seemed to be implying you had demonstrated that mastery.

[Anonymous No.20196893]

along the gale i pass a glance
upon that scale that dance with ants
my two eyes must make view askance
at this their quarry they do advance.
what prideful glow do they portray
their total ruin with which they play
on what marked mournful day
will they look back with due dismay
bucking steed gainst bridle met
once eyes of tinder now coals of jet
whose kindling mane once tender yet
hellfire now the flint-sharp whip beget
wriggler of the night this worm
sodden loam a former home firm
now roil beneath and round his squirm
trodden tunnels none abide his term.

[Anonymous No.20197157]

Another day has come
Another day has past
With not a valiant deed to ever be had
I shitpost most my days away and rewarded no decent pay
Throughout most of my stay it has been never but absolute decay
And I yet I stay just to return for another day
From the depths of /gif/'s degenerate fray
To /b/'s toxic lay, to /pol/'s rage way, I end the day just the same
With a fuck (You) and have a nice day
I AM CIA

[Anonymous No.20197342]

Why are half of these about transsexuality?

[Anonymous No.20197353]

If anyone here can speak italian and is interested I could post more about this small hendecasyllabic poem I made

[Anonymous No.20198012]

>>20188543
Nigger nigger,
Ni.
Gger.
Nig
er.
Fucking nigger.

[Anonymous No.20198029]

>>20197342
:3 /lit/ is a discordsister safespace

[Anonymous No.20198037]

On the first day,
there was light.
A cold brilliance,
naked illumination;
it singed and seared,
and left none unscathed.
We were blinded by this light,
stripped of reason and foresight.
And then it was gone—
the first day.
On the second day,
the sky disappeared.
A shroud of disillusion
pranced in its place,
waltzing in charcoal and
suffocation.
We groped for the heavens,
but touched only gossamers
of sinewy regret—
the second day.
On the third day,
the land and sea
engaged in battle.
Oceans slapped mutinous violations,
that decimated all vegetation.
The Earth trembled
in wrath
and cried torrents of steamy blood.
We, too, quivered,
from our damp and tumultuous
make-shift shelters—
the third day.
On the fourth day,
all celestial bodies fell.
Stars fainted tragically,
while the pox-marked Moon
sighed feeble tears,
and the Sun
donned a funeral mask.
We were deafened
by their wails—
the fourth day.
On the fifth day,
all animals died.
Birds plummeted,
fish drowned,
and livestock perished.
We retched from the fumes
of their decay.
Pestilence lingered,
like an unwelcome memory—
the fifth day.
On the sixth day,
Humanity ceased to exist.
Cowardice begat Folly,
and we frothed
in Avarice,
the prospective survivors.
But there were
none, as we tasted
our rust-soaked aspirations
disappear:
a foiled Communion—
the sixth day.
On the seventh day,
there was rest.

Because there was nothing
left.

[Anonymous No.20199133]

writing is stupid
technology is for men
this is a haiku

[Anonymous No.20200012]

why wait
at the gates of hell
when time reckons
and trespass beckons

///

pilfering
sticky fingered
gorilla glued
traceless
theft

///

the autumnal molt became mulch
of shed skeletons like leper limbs
trudged underfoot the screams of the deciduous
jealous of the evergreens

//

rape
kill
pop pills
bash women
eat children

///

I see a black man
I think, "I'd love to see that black mans delicious african tensile, his nubian rod, his Big BLACK cock, inseminating a glorious white woman. Cumming in her. Slamming her out. Creaming her holes. I want to see black cock fuck white women while I impotently jerk my flacidity in the corner. White women are the property and personal fuck toys of black, muscular MEN. Real men."
I am an american.

///

Join the NSA and get to play with cool toys.
Join the NSA and get to play with cool toys.
Join the NSA and get to play with cool toys.
Join the NSA and get to play with cool toys.
Join the NSA and get to play with cool toys.

[r/asianmasculinity No.20200918]

There was a little asian boi
quite yellow like the sun
he spent his day online at work
and drooled at blacks for fun

He went on reddit during work
and brought some bugs as snacks
he posted on the imageboards
to share his love of blacks

He wore a skirt and it was pink
because he loved to shock
he pranced throughout the ghetto church
to flash his tiny ----

[Anonymous No.20200935]

>>20196093
If this is the kind of shit you were writing for her, I can see why she dumped you

[Anonymous No.20201797]

Trans in a wagon.

Today as I traveled by a train
I stumbled upon something very unusual
"It" sat in front of me the whole way
I soon realized that it was the creature that is very delusional

A "transgender" some may call it
Or as i prefer: An abomination
It looked as it has broken spirit
I knew it seeks a validation

Slim arms and legs
But long and manly
I bet it still had two eggs
And it's previous name was Stanly

It truly was an unforgettable day
To see something this inhuman
When it finally left our coupé
I uttered: you will never be a real woman

It cried and verbally attacked me:
"You transphobic jerk!"
I wanted it to see
That it has no effect so I put on a smirk

Now it was time for me to be rude:
"Are you already considering joining the 43?"
It paused in a shock as i continued:
"Here is rope and go find a tree"

[Anonymous No.20202320]

>>20188543
A grueling week approaches
I have lost my sense of time
These last few months
It seems that my life has lost it's rhythm
Congregation of thoughts and feelings no longer approaches
But empties into a bottle of neurosis
I ready myself for what is to come
Because if I can't take this chance
Then what chance is there worth taking
I need to know, now more than ever

[Anonymous No.20202590]

>>20196093
don't listen to the faggots. That was nice

[Anonymous No.20202895]

>>20188543
Inspired by Meredith's "The Lark Ascending."
The Dhamma-Bird (Working Title)

He drops the stately string of sound,
And notes from Heaven come unbound,
Unwinding on aerial wings,
Descending as their vessel sings;
In all the towns which dot the hills,
A quiet rapture each ear thrills,
A rapture in each silver note,
A cosmos caught within a mote
Suspended in a single ray
Which falls to light the music's way
From higher realm to realm below,
Amid the turbid ebb and flow
Where men and misery collide;
With voice full-throated, on the tide
Of some dark river he alights,
Seeing at once the distant lights
Of passions alien to him
Whose music penetrates the dim,
Falling on ears which faintly grasp
The melody, and faintly clasp
The feeling, as it echoes on,
Renouncing all that has been done
To stifle him whose soul contains
Public bereavements, private pains,
Personal joy, collective woe,
Phantasms which silently go
As if they had not left their mark,
Like two clouds passing in the dark.

The feeling, gently dropping, sets
On hidden sentiments, begets
A sudden impulse in the hearer
To leave himself, that he be nearer
To him who sings beneath the Sun,
And bids all things to be as One,
So that distinctions disappear,
As on each liberated ear
The song alights, afresh, anew,
Each melody like morning dew
Cleansing the parched and dying earth;
From transmigration and rebirth
The impulse crafted by the song
Saves those imbibing deep and long;
Yet those who know but cannot drink
Lest they allow themselves to sink
Into annihilation's grip,
Still take a hesitating sip,
A scrap of music they perceive,
And in the moment they take leave
Of all phenomena, and go,
Melting into a purer flow
Where mind abides within its own,
Unbound from pains which drone and drone.

The world dissolves as on he goes,
Singing, dissolving worldly woes,
Until this world's phenomena
Dissolve into euphoria,
Into abiding joy, which lasts
And has no end, for Time has passed
Which limited our joys and sorrows,
Sorting us into eves and morrows,
Into the months, years, centuries
Which limit capabilities
For liberation in this world;
Now, with the soul at last unfurled,
Now with the Deathless to behold,
Now with the selfless and unsouled,
Now with no hindrances to end,
His song begins, at last, to wend
Its way up to the highest peak,
Crescendoing as the notes seek
The peace which we cannot discern
Who labor here, whose spirits burn
With craving, yet unpurified,
Hanging upon the turgid tide
Of that dark river where he sang,
Where first our ears and spirits rang
With echoes of his message, fair
As that which first coursed through the air
And fell upon the world, and brought
To us renunciating thought;
And still his song rings in the world,
Calling the soul to be unfurled,
Calling us to forsake the throng,
To sing the self-denying song,
To live with pure and selfless mind,
To leave our craving selves behind,
So that we find our refuge there,
Within his song, in empty air.

[Anonymous No.20203039]

>>20202895
That was really good anon, I'm impressed.

[Anonymous No.20203061]

>>20188543

Take up the white man's burden
Send forth your best to breed.
Fuck every single brown chick
And fill her with your seed.

[Anonymous No.20203123]

Train Poem

In my mind's eye’s iris
by the train tracks and mist,
farewells follow, her friends
and the cat that she’ll miss
more than anything else
waiting on the platform.

When it’s time to go they
disappear with the hiss
of departure’s approach,
leaving the sleepy miss
to look out the window
of her compartment coach.

Then fades in a dream-show
from which she awakens,
in sweat, slowing down to
a stop—her coach vacant,
the train having arrived
at her destination.

[Anonymous No.20203128]

Atop the stone walls of Texan-Mexico
With girls and girls and girls
And cigars

Climbs up the slope of my presidio
Soundlings of trumpet birds
From afars

I can faintly hear from down below
Castanets, tango twirls
And guitars

To the firing squad that forms a row
Facing the man who curls
My regards

[Anonymous No.20203135]

Poem by Marricat

When mother plays the black keys only,
A Japanese stream flows flat and slowly.
I broke all the glass in the house today.
Really, I broke all the glass in the house.

[Anonymous No.20203137]

>>20193561

[Anonymous No.20203139]

Ghost Fish

Taper off into nothing
Later scoff at the chopping off
Of every fin that once clung on
To your piscine pillow

Better yet get plotting
Of the next best horrible haunting of
Another thing in another pond
Surrounded by willows

[Anonymous No.20203150]

Three Poems, Loosely About: Spiritual Doubt

Does god
Know where
God came from?

Can god
Please mow
My front lawn?

∼

As the soul seeks rest
I seek the nearest
Restroom

I search for one, lest
I arrive upon
My doom

∼

Sky god
You sly god
Where’d you find the dough to bake that pie god?

I’m glad
You’re sad
Hope that’s enough to make you feel bad god

[Anonymous No.20203175]

>>20202895
About as impressive of a 19th century imitation as can be found online. Unfortunately, I'm not really sure where you would go from here. What's your story, anon? What do you want to do with this sort of thing?

[Anonymous No.20203204]

>>20189392
I like it

[Anonymous No.20203218]

>>20189571
He's as much a poet as a stick bug is a stick
So much so that I cannot but think
Posts praising the phasmatodean prick
Must really be written by him :3

[Anonymous No.20203265]

>>20203039
>>20203175
Thank you both!

>what's your story, anon?
I've been in love with the Victorians ever since I started writing poetry (back when I was around 13 years old). My favorite poet has to be Tennyson, but I love Eliot, Pound, and Whitman. I've always had a fondness for the Victorians (even wrote my undergrad thesis on them), but I've also written poetry in a modern/contemporary style, even using some of the typographical tricks Pound used in the Cantos (arranging the spaces and lines in certain ways, etc.) I do like writing formal poetry like this, but it often feels a bit more laborious because I have to couch my words in meter and rhyme, which can be rather frustrating when I have something I want to express but can't do so in the confines I have chosen without distorting the flow or grammar unnecessarily. Although I've found that I've read and written blank verse to the extent that I automatically think in it, for lack of a better word. And sometimes words or couplets will come into my mind and I have to write them down.

>what do you want to do with this sort of thing?
With my poetry in general? Eventually send it in to be published, but I have no clue if it's worthy of publication, nor do I have any idea where to start submitting. Poetry has been an abiding habit with me: I've been writing it since I was a teenager, and it has been my solace and comfort for years.

[Anonymous No.20204228]

Wrote this in HS, I can’t tell if it’s shit or decent. And I haven’t shown it to anyone else because I think most people believe poetry is gay.

[Anonymous No.20204255]

>>20203265
Thank you for your reply. I'm always interested in how people arrived at the point of writing solid "traditional" formal poetry -- it's obviously not a path that most people are forced or even enticed into following, and it doesn't really have any material benefit at all associated with it. It doesn't even have any social benefit. I don't think there's even any cultural capital associated with being able to write iambic tetrameter couplets without making any obvious errors.

I think there's a lot of "traditional" verse on /lit/ for reason or the other -- I suppose mainly because many people on /lit/ vaguely thinks it's the sort of poetry people should write. But that vague belief isn't usually enough to actually get anyone to get even halfway decent at actually meeting or even understanding the requirements of traditional formal verse. To actually do what you've done presumably takes a lot more effort than people are normally willing to put in and has to actually in some way be a labor of love, not of trying to prove a point about the decadence of modern poetry or something.

I hope you find success with publication. Obviously the market for the kind of thing you shared is limited, but if you're also doing more "modern" styles you might have a chance if you are able to perform them as competently as you can perform this 19th century style.

[Anonymous No.20204314]

So florescent within the rain
I see grotesque icons near the flock
Oh God! The night is done
Gripping cold over the mud
You place barren gems near the grave
We Reach! The day will die
Weird and glowing beside the dreamscape
I envision poisonous eggs beyond the mud
Repent! The night will go
darkening seeking
in the night
a trace of sadness
In whose heart
the lost man
chase his dream
and miss his turning

[Anonymous No.20204476]

Hard as a rock
To you I gave my cock
But you said no
Now I feel low
Now I must rape
And split you like a grape

[Anonymous No.20204552]

>>20204255
>I don't think there's even cultural capital associated with being able to write iambic tetrameter couplets without making any obvious errors
It's mostly used for comedic or satirical effect (as in E. O. Parrott's "How To Be Well-Versed in Poetry", a collection which parodies well-known poets while demonstrating various verse forms). I think many if not most people associate traditional verse forms with overly-sentimental or saccharine greeting card verses and other kinds of doggerel. But it seems like fewer people in general read or write good poetry, free or traditional.

Picrel is a poem in a more "modern" style I wrote a few months back. I often write verses in a single instance, so not everything I write makes sense at first glance.

[Anonymous No.20204554]

>>20204552
The second page. I get into the "zone" of writing and try to roll with it. I was really influenced by Pound's Cantos for a while when I was younger.

[Anonymous No.20204574]

>>20189387

[Anonymous No.20204752]

>>20204552
>>20204554
Unfortunately, I'm not sure this style is any less dated from the perspective of your average poetry editor. It's probably the type of allusions you are making that would give it away. I'm not fit to judge it myself -- I'm not a huge Pound fan -- but it seems competent.

If you love the Victorians and Pound/Eliot, I'm wondering if you've ever read some of the Allen Tate and Followers work? Specifically people that came directly out of that line: I think specifically Geoffrey Hill and early Lowell (who were both obsessed with Tate early on) often feel like a fusion of Victorian poetic extravagance with certain modernist tendencies.

> I think many if not most people associate traditional verse forms with overly-sentimental or saccharine greeting card verses and other kinds of doggerel
For truly "traditional" as in 19th century standards I think this must be right. There's still some modern formal poetry though, which is the wagon I'm hitched too. And which, to be fair, is also not going anywhere -- at this point it's just people doing worse versions of Wilbur (myself included). The only way modern formal poets cash out these days is by doing translations -- there's still a market for, say, translating Petrarch into English form.

[Anonymous No.20204838]

I never knew a smile—
the node—fatuously sculpted
by slightly vitiated line-workers
at restaurants without visible customers.

There's a statue in the core,
which they won't say,
whose smirk lures undressed doves
(the least peaceful of extant birds).

And the 8 billion wonder
without any nameable realization
how so much fibers
clothe their loved ones
cremated in a patient flame.

The laughters' balloon-strings
tie themselves to the masthead
of fleets. The face here
notices you across the bar—
its neckless enterprise pursues
the thing in you you thought hidden.

Obviously all sounds dissipate
and these screams and those
eventually meet. Now the node
does what rabbits do and
dies from being filed away.

The little snow—never mind
its saharan context in your certainty—
presents the greatest risk
in a world of the fanged
smiles like mistaken tail-wags
of dogs caged like the majority
of gods busy
looking for a featureless future—
the through-line here a sphere.

[Anonymous No.20204847]

>>20204752
>I'm not sure this style is any less dated from the perspective of your average poetry editor
True, sadly. I just write what comes to mind, and most of what I like reading is dated by other people's standards, lol.

>It's probably the type of allusions you are making that would give it away.
Also true. They might be more at home in a college prof's bookshelf than on the pages of Poetry Magazine.

>i'm wondering if you've ever read some of the Allen Tate and Followers work?
I'm aware of their stuff, but I haven't paid much attention to it. I like what I've read of Tate, though.

>There's still some modern formal poetry though
I think the best chance that formal poetry has is blank verse, because blank verse is incredibly variable within its own form and has the advantage of being very suited to natural English speech.

>the only way modern formal poets cash out these days is by doing translations -- there's still a market for, say, translating Petrarch into English form.

I don't know which translation of Dante I prefer, Mark Musa's or Anthony Esolen's.

Anywho, here's a more Whitmanesque poem I wrote a few Fourth of Julys ago:

“Not For You Only”

Not for you only do I write these poems,
America, sons and daughters of Liberty,
Not only for you, trees and rocks of America,
Ancient and carved from time by a timeless power,
It is not only for you that I pour verses out,
Pen and ink heaving in my hand as my heart beats
Steadily, pouring psalms and unseen odes
To the great and small facets of Liberty’s heaviest jewel,
Not only for you, caverns and woods of America,
Not for you only, matchless and revered sequoias and imperturbable rockfaces,
Nor for your combatants, the undying winds and seas,
Nor for the animals that fly in their heights and churn in their abysses,
Not only for any one of these, but for all of these my soul puts forth stanzas,
For all which was carved out of timeless earth, for all which came from the boiling sea,
For all that dwell in the dark woods, and the serried, snowy peaks,
For all children of liberty live and dead,
Not for one only, but for these I write.

[Anonymous No.20204885]

Love (a poem)


Describing red
without apple or rose
proves futile as
the writing of

[Anonymous No.20204943]

>>20204847
>True, sadly. I just write what comes to mind, and most of what I like reading is dated by other people's standards, lol.
That might be for the better... it does feel alienating though.

>I'm aware of their stuff, but I haven't paid much attention to it. I like what I've read of Tate, though.
I really can't recommend Hill enough. I'd try "Genesis" (an early poem), or "Funeral Music" to start with.

>I think the best chance that formal poetry has is blank verse, because blank verse is incredibly variable within its own form and has the advantage of being very suited to natural English speech.
I think blank verse works, but I'm still a fan of
a lot of rhymed verse being published through at least the 90s. I think it still has some potential, though I'm not sure what potential it is. I think Merrill and Wilbur were stellar, and they weren't writing that long ago. Though Wilbur's best poem might be "Lying", which is indeed in blank verse.

Interestingly, Paul Muldoon might be the most highly regarded "formal" poet in the English world today, and he's almost the opposite of someone doing blank verse -- his work usually feels like more or less free rhymed verse. But I'm not a huge fan of him. Seidel is similar.

>I don't know which translation of Dante I prefer, Mark Musa's or Anthony Esolen's.
Esolen's translation is more similar to what I had in mind -- trying to get the rhymes into the translation. Musa's is more scholarly. I think publishers are still seeking out people to do translations for classic authors into modern feeling forms, and the "neo-formalists" tend to snap up those jobs (and execute them in a mediocre manner).

The Whitmanesque poem is certainly Whitmanesque. It's admirable how well you are able to imitate the styles you are drawn to. That can't be a bad place to be in terms of writing poetry. I would share my own stuff back to you, but I'm way too squeamish about posting anything here.

[U.M. Lawrence No.20205640]

[Anonymous No.20205860]

“Hard Drive”

my port is open
for your hard drive
to load my software

you can import all you want
because I have multiple G-bytes
if you click the right buttons

when we exchange datafiles
please use protection
because I don’t want a virus

to disrupt my wireless hubs
you see, I like to keep my cache clean
for your hard drive

“Circuitry”

sparks fly
when your wires
cross with mine

is this dangerous?
only if our rivets
are not well-oiled

so plug it in
my sockets are ready
but no short circuits, please


“Network”

I am getting mixed signals
from the emissions
of your transmissions
why is your server down?
can I help with the upload?

[Anonymous No.20205874]

“Robutt Sex”

when you tether me
to your mobile modem
via my rear drivers
it can corrupt
my operating system

so you need to
open me
in safety mode

or else
I may crash

[Anonymous No.20205888]

“Cyber Geisha”

chrome
arthropodic armor
daintily slinks
slinky-dinky

my shiny nails
methodically
skim your steel
rail

as I go down your landing

don't worry,
my bootstrap method doesn't hurt
...that much

[Anonymous No.20205892]

>>20205888
Get rid of the ellipses and this would be perfect

[Anonymous No.20205896]

The kid who wrote robot haiku grew up

[Anonymous No.20205907]

“Pornbotgraphy”

there
is a secret location

where
we can all go

and exchange
torrents
of rust free of spyware

we can either
interpolate in
silence

or
extrapolate in
drones

[Anonymous No.20205918]

“Botdoir”

my botdoir
is a secure server
to which I
-and only I-
have the
password

it is where I
repair
reap air
and re-pair
myself

for my next
interface

[Anonymous No.20205927]

“mission.ARI”

I'm having problems
processing

your mission.ARI
phile

the compression of your algorithms
just doesn't
target the right archives

can we try
another form of
embedding?

[Anonymous No.20205931]

“The Pick-Up Artist”

she was equipped with
supermassive curves
synchromatic verves
cast for tele,
hooked on the future,
and back

model P90
one mean motherbucker,
who knew how to get
MIDIevil

and spread her
Industrial Disease

[Anonymous No.20205940]

“Shutting Down”

have I LED you on
with my
digital interface?

I scan and transmit
but you tell me
that you cannot crack
my encrypted files
because I have too many firewalls

good,
my programs are working

now reboot!

[Anonymous No.20205954]

>>20205892
Thank you for the feedback! I will reflect upon this suggestion. Perhaps a hard return instead?

>>20205896
Don’t know who you’re talking about, would be interested in reading their haikus. I posted these 13 years ago on another site. Might resume if I find images to inspire me.

[Anonymous No.20206075]

ctrl + f blithe, 4 results

[Anonymous No.20206083]

once upon a time cat
I had a teddy bear bat
it was soft and cuddly dog
but then we had to move frog
and I lost my teddy cat
but I didn't care bat
that's how I treat people too dog
so I'm not very popular frog

[Anonymous No.20206759]

Bump

[Anonymous No.20206768]

>>20205954
Was referring to this

[Anonymous No.20206787]

>>20188543
Big booty bitches I got big booty bitches
Big booty bitches I got big booty bitches
Skinny bitches get out, we don’t want no skinny bitches

[Anonymous No.20206807]

>>20188543
>Unconstructive criticism only

Upon a dark horizon there
We see the world we want see
Across the river and the ocean
Our image of reality

The lies and dreams of hope so sodden
With tears and raindrops smothered
Of hardship and forgotten plans
Is our imagination free

I want oh glory oh success
A thousand prayers to Mother said
To Father are our thoughts once turned
To Sisters, Brothers bound are we

What of the truth that bears upon us
What of the destiny we flee
A path carved by our great ambition
But trodden not for fear and glee

[Anonymous No.20207040]

>>20206768
That is absolutely precious…the humor, the subtle subversion of authority…I would want to read his future work.

[Anonymous No.20207150]

>>20204554
Anon I like this poem. It is good, if this you wrote when younger would love to hear your own thoughts on it. My biggest critique would be the *forced* feeling of the allusion. ie: you mention Narcissus but it feels almost thrown in without clear purpose; 'song of samadhi' at end, this fits very well (the meter being shorter makes it feel like a clear end). Pound, especially in early years, always paints an 'image' of the poem within the poem. see: Shield of Actaeon - this poem has perfect selection of allusion and image

Heres one I wrote yesterday for april, trying to do a poem a day. Needs some cleaning up but would love advice

----
The trees fly by like birds.
robins, specifically.
Cawing a blue-grass hymnal
While I’m absorbed completely
In the twisting gyre,
Cut by a fading yellow
And, occasionally,
A roadkill pyre
But all is justified
With freedom at my hands
Amor fati - the car
Of an American teen
I am five minutes late
So I just barely see
The trailer-homes resting
Like an unholy graveyard
At an abandoned church
Just waiting for the day
A storm whisks it all away
As worms tunnel the caskets

– Then there's a turn
And freedom regained
The choir still sings
And my mind begins to play
Out the scenarios
Of this girl or that test
And I gladly enter
The world of ‘the they’
As I pull into school
Far off, a lighter flicks:
The sacrificial ritual
Of another hick
To the GAE

[Anonymous No.20207204]

The clock tics, the man will receive his lick.
Screams of beasts, like that of chimpanzees.
Run, hide, scream yourself like the beasts that chase.
How many could be on the hunt, my life says twelve but maybe twice as many.
Cracked, boiled, skewed, how will the beasts like to consume?
Chew, spit, growl, the beasts play foul.
Split, shake, and douse, gorge yourself but do not pout for more marrow is to be made from the other beasts’ membranes.
Pick, stick, and poke, a feast is here so let us cheer for we have all that could be desired.
As the Jabberwock joins, we must say best and go.
He leaves pickled eye and plum, we are left dumb, for the Jabberwock has feasted on us today.
As his jaws that bite, and his claws that catch, the twelve snacks of the last!

[Anonymous No.20207442]

>>20206807
Pretty much dogshit with no recourse.

[Anonymous No.20207729]

bumperoo

[Living In America No.20207737]

Take your seat on the Throne of Want
Send out your titans shambling
O'er the red frothing Atlantic
Oceans to grip the old world's hips in its jewel-encrusted hands
To drill its birthing place with the base of its flag until the dream is born again
Never ever is enough for us
--------------
Some violet whore with a violent painted face comes stumbling into the place
Bags of fat stapled to her ribbed chest
Ribbons of cracked makeup falling from tired eyes
She points at you and suggests your near future with the twining of her waist
Something wicked this way comes
And it's not a baby, but it is still bor

[Living In America No.20207745]

>>20207737
shit I meant *but it is still born

[Living In America No.20207786]

>>20204228
if that's you in high school, I would love to see what you're up to now. Also, I think you have some very beautiful, neat handwriting--that really scratches my autism

[Anonymous No.20209186]

>>20207786
agree, i like the handwriting

[Anonymous No.20209222]

>>20206807
I like the content very much, for it to be world class it would need to have clean rhymes and measure

[Anonymous No.20209255]

>>20204885
>>20204838

best itt

[Anonymous No.20209665]

so many coomers

[Anonymous No.20209674]

Today i broke my hand in half
Today i tossed twenty dimes
I kneel its demigods and laugh
Some moody ways to feel the way
You used to know and to sustain

[Anonymous No.20209713]

The little nigger on the wall
LOOK at him
Look at the little nigger on the wall
Black man is debil

[Anonymous No.20209727]

JANNIES SUCK MY DICK
LIT IS THE MOST PRETENTIOUS
BAKKER IS STILL GAY

[Anonymous No.20209802]

4chan is a silly place
Where strange men hate each others’ race
And stranger still are those who claim
That they enjoy being put to shame
And even that does not compete
With the men who masturbate to feet

4chan is a silly place
Where children grow up in disgrace
To become adults who bitch and whine
About their psychosexual decline
About their shitty parents and friends
About the way their foreskin bends

4chan is a silly place
Where men prefer to have a woman’s face
So that they can receive a lot of praise
For achieving nothing with their wasted days
Avoiding the hard work and toil
That would make their lives worth more than soil

4chan is a silly place
That I can’t leave despite my hate
Despite my knowing what is best for me
In my head it’ll live, where the rent is free

[Anonymous No.20209815]

>>20188543
Two ugly Sisters from Morden
Took a walk one day, out of boredom
On the way back, a Sex maniac,
Jumped out of a bush, and ignored 'em.

[Anonymous No.20210534]

>>20204838
v nice

[Anonymous No.20210539]

>>20207737
pretty gay if im to be honest

[Anonymous No.20210542]

>>20202895
nice

[Anonymous No.20210553]

>>20206787
plagiarism >:(

[Anonymous No.20210804]

leaves are crunchy
when you step in them they crunch
and you can jump in them

[Anonymous No.20210892]

He does it for free, on an anime website.
Working in the dark, as he never sees the daylight.
Not remuneration nor acclamation.
He copes with dilatation.
Frustration is at his sight.
Cleaning shit left and right.
Cooking hotpockets in the microwave.
In his dark and wretched cave.
He is fat as a whale, and ugly as a snail.
Hell, his ego is truly frail.
To the abyss he will send you if he please.
This beast is truly unease.
FUCK NIGGERS.
FUCK KIKES.
AND FUCK JANNIES.

[Anonymous No.20211555]

>>20192741
neat
>>20192761
i like the final stanza
>if your in pain
typo right? or am i missing something

t. pleb

[Anonymous No.20211633]

A pit of darkness below
Beautiful beams of light and beauty above
A ladder I must keep on climbing
For it is always falling faster and faster
My fingers grow weary of the climb
The ladder never ends

[Anonymous No.20212038]

>>20204943
>I really can't recommend Hill enough
I'll check him out, thanks!

>It's admirable how well you are able to imitate the styles you are drawn to.
I genuinely appreciate this, anon. I like being able to take a poetic form--even free verse--and make it my own. I do think even free verse is a form in itself; as Eliot said, "No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job."

>>20207150
>If this you wrote when younger would love to hear your own thoughts on it
I wrote this a few months ago, actually.
>My biggest critique would be the *forced* feeling of the allusion
Agreed. I sometimes write random words or phrases as a way to brainstorm and get the juices flowing so I can put something more substantial on paper
>Here's one I wrote yesterday for April, trying to do a poem a day
An admirable goal, honestly. I like the style of lengthy stanzas with shorter lines; it has a stream of consciousness quality to it that helps convey the imagery. When writing a poem like this, don't let your lines fall too easily into a set rhythmic pattern. It can make an otherwise good poem very dull. Not bad, though, anon.

Here are some tanka and haiku I wrote a while back:

Fire in a cornfield
in winter; a frog
underneath a frozen pond
doesn't mind the husks
crackling into pale ash
unwatched by anyone.

Three trickling paths
worn out by neglect
point the way to insects
going from gutter to grave:
down the drainpipe.

housefly cadet flies
straight into cobwebs--
still worth it.

don't move!
above you--two cardinals
gazing at snow.

winter graffiti:
scattered tracks, a few turds,
"squirrel wuz here."

[Anonymous No.20212217]

Oh, boy! Time to share the horrible poetry I wrote for my creative writing class! This is why I stick to literary criticism.

This is, in truth, a world forged pure in love:
In bliss, with ink of mortal blood bewrit.
The world our stage, we play for eyes above,
Yet blind, perception dim, on grace we spit.
In good, the good; in vice, the good; all sight,
My sight, delight; the wheel of fortune grim
Eyes new no burden see, not large nor slight:
Perspective dead no more, in fate all frim.
With song of breeze, and roar of cannon ball,
To ears redeemed the spheres do seem to sing!
In deed joins man his voice with God's, stands tall,
Both word and blade, both paint and mortar brings!
In love we sing to every thing, from now
'til ends the Age with Sunday wedding vow.

[Anonymous No.20212287]

>>20212038
Thank you for advice anon


>don't move!
>above you--two cardinals
>gazing at snow.

This is great haiku. Biggest critique would be that the punctuation almost feels too aggressive taking away from the quality of them poem. The movement outside of oneself in the 'dont move' to nature 'two cardinals' to outside of them 'gazing at snow' perfectly captures very much a zen movement of destroying the subject. The red of the cardinals stands against the white of the snow. Perfect little haiku.

[Anonymous No.20212319]

Where wind wallows strong and silts the river
with silent breath
is where I long to be in death,
where my limbs shall love that lasting quiver
while listening to the river
bring my dreams towards my Lethe.

And if upon me the grip of roses left
no lasting echo,
at least I shall swim the fluid narrows
of wind and water that summer wreathes
to womb my leave,
before I die, so I die more slow.

O soul that, singing, slips within the stream
which beckons me
up alleyways of blood to bend and see
the caverns wend and whisper, no more dream
your fluid avenues but be
still like the wind. That neither lives, nor seems.

[Anonymous No.20212347]

Ekphrastic poem based on this: https://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/dp/original/DP828191.jpg

PIRANESI'S THE ROUND TOWER

The stone steps build a place for the human
who, lacking that, might be lost amidst all
Piranesi heaped in his construction,
materials perceptually pried from those
Venetian architectures he loved young,
mixed with an older contradiction,
of fear, that he saw in distant nightmares
where metal pulled metal upwards without
mind of their master, whose hands turned slavish
against their erection, darkening walls
craned towards infinity, as dream
finds a way to cement itself firm,
direct the world to some deeper course
until one is smalled in deepening chasms.

Thus the cross-hatch of steps is uncertain,
festering inks that boil murky footholds
where solvent shadows emphasize limbs
to walk upon those scraggy inclines,
some holding handrails as though it would help,
some peeking knees through the balustrades,
staring down the smudged stone drop
to outside the bounds the etching permits
to form a presence in our aching eyes
with irises quavering two umbral notes
thrown from two horns, the rising pitch
of Piranesi's fathomless tar erupting
from the grooves the burin signed,
this hardened scene of a place obscure.

From a landing, one shade points
up a sidesprouting curve of steps
as though to direct another's motive
upon a much less hazarded way
which snakes around the central rondure,
the stone cylinder whose grated teeth
might burn a maw of shattered light
the mind says orange though monochrome
beckons whatever you might imagine
populates the page, despite the sun
that enters the frame through soft contrast
of lines thinning to upper right
which indicates day, or grey afternoon,
warming the bridge connecting towards
the unseen right, where the prison extends
(if we truly believe it a prison
as the series title suggests)
to, perhaps, another print or dream
within the world of Piranesi, grand
ruin of some illogical collapse
of aberrant angles where concrete laughs
at its own ludicrousity, contorts
a burrowing body of warped interiors
that invents a fiction we calmly peruse
as our fingers cross that middle bridge.

(1/2)

[Anonymous No.20212353]

>>20212347

Out the circular tower two arches curve,
as though the fortified neck could grow
the ironic horns of a jester's cap,
one worming out of the winding stair,
its root blocked by the undergills
implying the steps that lie overside,
as it blends into the ceiling and sizzles
away in the sketchiness that still smokes
of the etcher's ingenuity, while other
arch braces a bridge's underside,
a bridge higher than the middle bridge,
leading away to the left, underneath
the roundel of a grated hole
whose grating might gate a prisoner
from living in light of the wasting day,
while he ages, holding skyward palms
to the withering vision of an opposing
wall, the cruel architect's placement
denying him even the soothe of a scene
as grand as surroundings he cannot see,
the perspective we, as observers, see
with eyes that take the solidifed whole,
of the etching we call 'The Round Tower'
in a book of prints published by Taschen,
as we spiral it in our own inner sense:
walking the stairs, floating up arches,
basking in sunlight, the flashing tower,
crawling up the blocky facades,
perching upon that wooden protrusion
of unknown purpose, to the left, which lashes,
from a pulley, a rope whipping to wall,
wondering about the numerous gratings,
dissolving amidst the silhouettes,
until, eventually, we are taken
by a normal day's schedule, lessons, jobs
as structured as the structures within
Piranesi's pictures, bored, persuaded
that nothing we know might ever make sense
of the wonderment felt when we see
those arches, bridges, rising and falling
ruthless contortions, gratings, railings
up and down stairs, the dungeon dream
of that genius Venetian, as we
lie upon his rack that pulls
our limbs till we're thinned as lines
etched within the bustling mind
of the man named Piranesi.

(2/2)

[Anonymous No.20212520]

>>20202895
Your technique is sound but a godawful amount of cliches. There are lines and word choices obviously for the rhythm which don't really contribute much to the unfolding or development of the narrative. And one gets the feeling that not a single unique image or turn of phrase is to be found anywhere within the lines.

[Anonymous No.20212580]

[Anonymous No.20212693]

>>20212353
>>20212347
I think this is on the right track. But I really can't stop myself from thinking that it's far, far too long for the material you've actually built up. You seem to be intent on describing every impression you have about the image, but you probably want to limit your description to some key details if you actually want to evoke the same impression you are receiving from the image, otherwise I'm just getting bored, the description is at once too minute and too general to really make it evocative of anything.

I don't really see any reason why this, in its current state, needs to go beyond 20 lines -- it's not like you are using the image as a springboard for some other meditation in the manner of Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror or something, you are just kind of repeating yourself at a certain point by describing a bunch of features of the image which are all fairly similar to each other.

And lines like:

"denying him even the soothe of a scene
as grand as surroundings he cannot see,
the perspective we, as observers, see
with eyes that take the solidifed whole,
of the etching we call 'The Round Tower'
in a book of prints published by Taschen,"

... Come on. This is almost parody to me, in how it seems to be drawing itself out to unnatural lengths. What in the last four lines quoted is interesting or descriptive to the reader, rather than just information?

[Anonymous No.20212703]

>>20212319
I'm disturbed that it seems like you want to rhyme "Lethe" with "breath."

[Anonymous No.20214176]

her duodenum
tasted like paris
caverns covered
in a hip light
& the scene
of her contorted
face freed of
all constraints
in this arc we
touch tips of the
frontier always
broken & breaking
across numb
spatial features
readily denying
the world's entry
into my relish-
ing your dainty
flesh once very
supple now firm
& dried & what
they call
dead

[Anonymous No.20214504]

>>20188543
> Rule Brittania, marmalade and jam
> Stick five firecrackers up your arsehole
> Bam bam bam bam bam

[Anonymous No.20214541]

>>20212693
To tell the truth I wrote this in roughly an hour because I could. This is pure practice and dickwaving. I wouldn't actually put any poem I ruminated deeply on on this site lol.

[Anonymous No.20214673]

flickerings of feathers floating down from wherever
reaching out only to seize an umbrella
shower me at once in sunshine propellers
cowering unsoaked in seasonal nutella

[Anonymous No.20215383]

Warm is the country of the countless dead:
coat not your alms upon their fuller sky,
where drink they the dawn stars pitcher by their head,
where knits of their silence swim in stupid lie,
and they in the gas jars playful gambols had,
and the rose alights between their fading smiles.

Warm is the country of the crooked crow:
dark bird above and the dark men happy stare,
where wingspanned of sky announce what winters know,
where caw caw of creeping rattling sound sits far,
and the domed dreams batter in their darkened holes,
and bread for the victor around the stones is shared.

Warm is the country of the comely corpse:
sits she in jewels festering her hair
where pale rings the mirror out of ancient fog
where out fruits the touch that dries the apple airs
and the old men their penance hold in thaw
and long they the gesture of her silent stare.

[Anonymous No.20215400]

>>20207786
Thanks anon! This was the beginning of a 3 page epic poem I was working on, only got 4 stanzas in, but I personally was pretty proud of it.

[Anonymous No.20215412]

I remember when I was 19 and thought mimicking antiquated styles was going to get me anywhere as a poet.

[Anonymous No.20215539]

>>20215412
I agree with you that it’s not going to get you anywhere, but it’s not like you’ve gotten anywhere anyway. There’s no way to get anywhere as a poet.

[Anonymous No.20215556]

Where lifts the breath
on this round hearth
that cages death
from rancid path;

Where stirs the fire,
deep, ensouled,
that burns no eye
but warmly goes;

The word is knit
that lessens pain
while smiles befit
the silent gain;

The poet's pledge
is steel in mind;
a lovely hedge
to hide the time.

[Forumwalker No.20215855]

Ego Machine
---------------------
Surrender to the flesh
Don't fight the feeling
The blood is reeling through the spaces
Between the skin
Miniature railways underneath
Each cell has memory
Remember the pleasure, remember the rush
Remember the drug
That she brought
Highways of eternal desert longing
No longer desire but desperation

[Cousin Gaston No.20215875]

Tomorrow is Coming

In with the tea drinkers
Into the forever house
Take a seat at the table pacing onward into eternity
With its lionate legs
Swallowing featureless spheres against the floor
Cold place
Hollow like the back of a mind
Solid souls are turning to soil with the passage of the ceiling fan
In rush the clowns with the reversals of fortune
Written on the backs of their painted hands.

[Anonymous No.20217036]

Bump

[Anonymous No.20218625]

olly olly olly
tits in the trolly
balls in the biscuit tin
sitting on the grass
with a finger up your ass
playing with your ding a ling - ling - ling

[Noname Femanon !1oKmZSIAF. No.20218719]

i woke up
gave you a morning blowjob
you were late your job
i did not care cuz i wanted to finish my job

[Noname Femanon !1oKmZSIAF. No.20218723]

i woke up
gave you a morning blowjob
you were late to your job
i did not care cuz i wanted to finish my job

[Anonymous No.20218858]

>>20188543
roses are red
violets are blue
I dont like jews

[Anonymous No.20219246]

I'm walking down the street
With my own to feet
I've walked a million miles
With nothing but a smile
I've met a million men
And wrote down their names with a pen
There's only one thing left to do
To fall in love with you

[Anonymous No.20219653]

holiest of holies
gloriest of glories
the name on the door
accompanies a number
the number another door
into a world of extravagancies
and firm buttocks bent in shape
unlike you—yes, you—and your
(fill in the blank, if you will)

And ultimately i believe in you
that you exist
though past that
i won't comment

[Anonymous No.20219727]

>>20188543
Look at me put the words into the box for words
I'm a real person my words are real
People people people I'm a people
I'm a big bag of meat, look at me
This has meaning like everything else
Everything has the same amount of meaning
That means my words are meaningful
People are important and good and equal
I'm just throwing trash on the ground
Hoping some homeless man picks up the trash
to see my joke inside and laugh
sometimes I just write about the fact that I am in pain
it is painful to be alive
so I write my words on a piece of electronic garbage
then I throw it into the electronic dumpster
and hope that the computer god reads it
then he will come euthanize me out of programmed empathy
I've been trying for 10 years to get the government to execute me
for being a terrorist or a thought criminal
but they don't do it
I'm not good enough
so I wake up and I whip myself with peasant labor
every day peasant labor people time and I do a good job
I don't deserve my bullet in the skull
I didn't earn my place against the wall
I'm not worth a free train ride ticket
I'm not worth a spot in the mass grave
Go to work peasant
You will earn your prize if you work hard enough
So i work hard
I work in shame, and hate myself for this failure
And I work my second job, trying to earn my euthanasia
People dream of free tickets to heaven
I dream of a free train ride
I really hate all of you
I just want to make sure the feeling is mutual
If you don't kill me out of hatred, I know I'm not good enough
Sadly, the people cannot read
Look at this screed on the jpg
look at this screed on the word box
Probably too many lines
Not the 3k limit
Just too many lines
Fuck you peasant
You can't even use the right number of lines
You use too many line breaks
You really think you deserve a free train ride?

[Anonymous No.20219815]

>>20219727
We have the DOT truck for dead animals
I can't understand why we have funerals

[Anonymous No.20219838]

Your mothers pussy,
rather loosely,
fingered i,
for several moons.

i grow now tired,
no desire,
to go on,
through this horror.

i kill your mother.

[Anonymous No.20219928]

>>20214176
actually v nice

[Anonymous No.20220104]

Sitting alone at night
Pondering all that should be right
Yet here I am with nothing in sight
Maybe because of my quiet might.

No, they shalt not know
The things that I wish to sow

For all that is in this mind
I can't seem to find
The meanings hidden behind
The locked doors of my mind.

Slowly and surely I climb
Away from all that's behind
This dark hole of mine
Full like a collapsed coal mine.

Some will venture
Wish to see
Things unseen
But I beg of thee
Do not attempt to measure.

The things that I hold
The things that I deem cold
The things that eye behold.

Three names alone
Could not best this soul
For it comes with a toll
That you will wish was not so.

I leave with this
A final miss
One forgotten with a hiss
This history of misery
Is thus others fishery.

[Anonymous No.20220122]

jews
I hate smelly jews
jews
I hate smelly jews
ohhhhhhhh how I hate the smell how I hate the man how I hate
Stinky Jews
I am going to bed
But not with a Jew
Because they are super stinky, ew
Jews are stinky
Jews are stinky
Jews are stinky
Oh I'm having a laugh because they smell like ass, jews

[Maria No.20220864]

Latinate armies
Standing stock still against the marble
Spinning seas of blood into the vacuum
Of a thousand tombs
Blood, frothing blood
Ferment in the jaws of the Imperators
Of fallen centuries swept by
With the waving of a hand
Turn to stone walking down the aisle
Toward infinity
It's the king's walk

[Anonymous No.20220908]

>>20188543
I posted part of this here a while back. Now That I reached 400, here's the whole version:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CCMIcc7BNe0&ab_channel=HoundofHeaven

Do rocks have an intention?

Do rocks have some intention
Why do they always fall?
Why do they always hit the ground
Instead of standing tall?
Why do they never grow long wings
And soar up to the moon
Does thinking rock's intend to fall
Make one a great buffoon?

For rocks have always fallen
Dropped in the atmosphere
They never do a different thing
When seen on earth down here
Yes rocks have an intention
To fall rather then rise
A determined course of action
Despite their shape or size

But if they have intention
Do they then have a mind
To see the thing they strive for
And seak their ends in kind?
If rocks could know their end goal
And fail an end to add
An Incompleted rock are they
As such are these rocks bad?

But rocks don't have a mind to see
Nor use a will to choose
The rock fulfils all ends it owns
Intentions there, but set in stone
The rock has paid it's dues

[Anonymous No.20220915]

>>20220908


Do trees have some intention
Why do they always grow?
Always starting nice and small
And adding inches slow
Why do they seem a bad tree
When nourishment is scant
Or rotten from inside the bark
When hosting lively ants

Yes trees have some intention
To grow rather then shrink
But it's a different kind of thought
Than makes the rocks all sink
For though the tree intends to grow
And though it means to eat
The tree can be malnourished
And end up incomplete

An Incompleted tree then
Can have intentions fail
And so become a bad tree
Now permanently frail
As living things they all can fail
To live up to their end
When left without their proper parts
They fail what they intend

They also have intentions
Of water, clouds, and sand
It's planted in the parts of trees
They burn they fall they grow no knees
Firm rooted in the land

[Anonymous No.20220927]

>>20220915

Do birds have some intention
To know the things they seak?
Internal presentations
Of where to use their beak
Why do they move so fluidly
Reacting to their scene
And flee when sensing danger
Now flying, now serene

For birds do see what is to come
And what already was
They aim at filling instincts call
That is their great "because"
When hunger calls them to go eat
And danger bids them stay
And pain advises cautiousness
They act the selfsame way

Now birds too have intentions
Of falling rock and tree
Some lack their proper nourishment
They fall, well, usually
On top of these a third kind
Is one they call their own
The bird can see the things it seeks
Unlike the falling stone

But birds will build the same nest
Despite enormous skill
Each kind of bird builds one the best
As each type's homes will all attest
For birds have no free will

Does man have some intention
That's somehow more gourmet
Above creation's lavish feast
With endless ends at play
Is there something added
That on man's mind may weigh
That lets him follow all his ends
In strange and useless ways

For man has parts that fall like stones
And men can grow like trees
And men can see the things they seak
Like birds and bats and bees
What then is left for men to own
What's his eccentric voice?
He understands the things he sees
And wins them by free choice

For man can understand his ends
like nothing else on earth
And man can fill out his intent
And give his actions birth
And since his actions are by choice
Now minded with goals known
When failing in the goal of man
A man must then atone

For choice makes man responsible
For anything he does
And he must bear the burden well
And to his end himself compel
After his great "because"

[Anonymous No.20220929]

>>20220927

Unintentional postscript

Now man has an intention
Like that of all the trees
A way that he should grow and act
A way that he should be
Now what is his intention
In what does it consist
What good or end does man aim at
For what does he exist

Well mans mind can see patterns
And make them reapply
To all the good things that he knows
From earth and sea and sky
And he has seen some goods surpassed
And it will come again
That the very best food here on earth
Can't match the love of men

So if he's seen the simple good
And then has seen it passed
And know the pattern reapplies
The question must be asked
If all goods fail by great degrees
All these can be surpassed
Can any but an endless good
then be the very last

[Maria No.20220959]

>>20214176
cool shit. I like the body imagery & general feel of it. Clever, the whole "hip light" double meaning there, interesting.

[Maria No.20221015]

Panting mouths, waiting to catch a drip of the drool from the upper limits, the heavenly host shining tombstones through lips of living flesh. There they go again: The Paradisiacs crashing against the grey wall of time life history. Paint it red with their blood. Rolling eyes back through numb skulls. Until a museum raises up from the piling of their bones.
Dangle those wet paper beards over cold soup
and read about the Annihilationists: stripping down raw wet flesh until they become like skeletons, taking their faithful by the hand, down into the judgment land, down the stairwell spiraling past the jaws of old time, below the basement level of life, to turn back one last--and shut that old heavy gate on the last living light.

[Anonymous No.20221191]

>>20220908
There's probably a lot of critiques that can be made of this, but just as a starting note: please punctuate your lines. In some ways, it doesn't really matter -- it's clear enough how the thing is meant to be read. But if you would simply choose to thoroughly punctuate the poem, an effort of five minutes time, it would immediately look twice as competent and professional. It's almost a cheat for allowing your work to begin to be taken seriously.

If you really don't want to punctuate for style reasons, that can be an acceptable choice (though for this poem I don't see the point) but if you want to do that, then actually don't punctuate, don't slip back and forth between punctuating ("They fall, well, usually") and not putting a question mark when there should be a question mark.

[Anonymous No.20222331]

Life saving bump

[Anonymous No.20222689]

How wide is the gulf between us? How deep?
Does my thrashing break waves upon your shore?
Bottled messages aren't enough.

[Anonymous No.20222845]

Some seem agressive,
some upset.
Some seem fun,
but are you hiding a gun?
Just trying to make a choice
we won't regret.
Foxxxes are quick to run away even in bright day. Thank you for considering we. Yay.

[Salvatore Domingues No.20223134]

yeah bump

[Anonymous No.20223953]

bu-bump

[Anonymous No.20224089]

>>20188701
the nigger walks
down the crackhead street
another nig he fights
cracked head at his feet

this is the way
for the niggers in gangs
they have fallen
from their time as kangs

[Anonymous No.20224343]

>>20188543
Existem dois rapazes
Futuros maridos e futuros mendigos
Existem duas raparigas
Futuras mães e futuras meretrizes

Ninguém quer ser esposa do mendigo
Ninguém quer ser filho da puta!

Um homem que não tem familia
É um homem que não tem casa
Uma mulher que não tem senpaiília
É uma vagabunda.

[Anonymous No.20224596]

>>20188661
That is fucking dreadful

[Anonymous No.20224695]

Anon says he reads but this is a lie.
But what does truth matter,
To someone who nobody cares for?
At least things seem that way.
He needs to be different. He needs to be different.
It’s all that will save him; from memories of the playground. Memories of home. The numb dread of a cold and loveless tomorrow.
This nobody’s mind is an impacted sewage system,
Slippery ideas mushing together and repelling each other all at once.
He is bereft of soul. Too cowardly for truth, he settles for lies.
Look inside.
There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.
Even if he were to look, there’s nothing there.
He browses /lit/ and drinks his coffee, thinking a Parisian aesthetic might improve his chances.
Of a girlfriend. Of self esteem. Of a glimpse of an identity.
He doesn’t know the girls laugh at him when they see him endlessly combing his hair.
He saw that in a film once, and thought it looked very dapper.
He is deficiency. He is vanity. He is projection and isolation. Neediness and wrath.
I pray to God he does not reproduce.

[Anonymous No.20224701]

>>20188676
SAME BROTHER

[Anonymous No.20224707]

>>20189392
Pretty good honestly

[Anonymous No.20224758]

>>20189377
>>20189383
>>20189387
>>20189389
>>20189392
Frater, I love you and you poetry and the valuable advice you give to other poets, but is this not ridiculous?
This is impressive, Frater, but seething so hard over another poet in this format is unattractive. Poetry should be a dialogue, but not to this extent. Even when Yeats took shots at other poets he limited himself to at most four lines.

[Anonymous No.20224809]

>>20188543

A condom bought at twenty-four,

Sheathing a sword unused before,

Her lament at a prick so tiny and small,

His semen got through despite it all.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20225666]

>>20224758
I’ve always admired the Chinese tradition of writing opposing poems in opposite rhythm since I first read about it in pu songling, the reason I pick Whitman is not hate of Whitman so much as, I think he’s the person best in class for his manner of writing and his the one in his content style who does it best, and as I am opposed to both, I have to conquer it and if I am to conquer it I must climb their biggest mountain and I must do so on its own terms, to demonstrate the higher things are naturally more beautiful. For me, my interest in poetry is purely contemplative and the only relation to other people who write poetry I can conceive of, is either using them for pleasure, refinement or mountains to conquer. Example I do not believe myself capable of it yet, but when I attain the skill necessary, I wish to overcome Swinburne’s hymn of man poem, which I consider one of the best, which DOES MAKE ME SEETHE! Because it’s so opposed to my values. I understand why you would think it ugly, but for me Will and Violence are just more fuel for the fire of refinement.

[Anonymous No.20225707]

This heart has yearned for a heart too
Clear
Clear and broken and maybe so dear
But you, dear, broken seem to miss it
And miss, it makes me less inclined
To tell you my own hearts brokenness
But love's refined the less defined it is
And you for all your thinking
Drink it raw
And drink it sinking

[Anonymous No.20226322]

Bump

[Anonymous No.20226341]

Nymphomaniac alice
Used a dynamite stick as a phallis
They found her vagina in North Carolina
And part of her anus in Dallas
>nb4 "le plagiarism"
I know. Poetry is gay and retarded.

[Anonymous No.20226637]

>>20188543
how do you guys write poetry bros, it feels very hard, and i have heard its not possible to do it without a very specific background in language,
i really wanted to write poetry after reading john keats when i was a kid.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20226879]

>>20226637
Keep reading and keep writing until you get gud, just like any other skill. Read a book on the basics then have at it.

[Anonymous No.20226993]

>>20192998
>“And care is love of another,” is OBVIOUSLY non-metrical.
>Can we get a trochee?
What? "of another" is pyrrhic + trochee = filtered by Frater

[Anonymous No.20227219]

>>20226993
Hi Frater. Sure, you could call it a pyrrhic + a trochee. It's still non-metrical. It's a three beat line in a four beat poem.

You don't understand how feminine endings are supposed to work -- you don't substitute a trochee for the last foot, you add an unstressed syllable at the end (or sub an amphibrach for the last foot, if you like).

The way the line exists now, it's much closer to being "functionally" two iambs followed by an anapest + a feminine ending -- an obvious three beat line.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20227538]

>>20227219
Not me Nig, again you seem to misunderstand so I will again tell you, my ideal was not nor has it ever been meter for its sake nor have I worshipped the 19th century style as you seem to believe, for my favorite of of the romantics Blake in his epics did not use a consistent meter instead changing it on a line by line and syllable by syllable level, likewise the Bible has no such regulation, likewise you can find a multitude of lines in Swinburne and Milton not bound to regularity, as an example

The Timbrel hither bring( three stresses, iambic)
The cheerfull Psaltry bring along
And Harp with pleasant string.

Or will you deny the scansion of this as the TIM brel HIT-her BRING (thus three feet)
Followed by the CHEER ful PSALT ree BRING a LONG, (which is clearly four feet! ) followed by another three line, such variety of feet was never unknown or uncommon, we see the same multiplicity of feet amount in anyone from Sidney to Spenser to Shakespeare to much more contemporary writers, but again I will reiterate even if they did not ever do this which I just shown they do, the purpose of meter is to benefit the sound not itself, to judge a work based on your preferences in meter and not whether the sound actually coheres is an absolute joke. Why would you obey an iambic pattern or any number of feet if it didn’t cohere with the sound and sense you wanted in the specific circumstance?

Once more if you want to actually complain about a poem I’ve written, try the longer one above and not one written in literally 15 minutes kek, and judge it by if the sound and sense cohere. If you will not judge a piece by the standard it idealizes to follow, how can you claim it has failed or succeeded in any sense?

[Anonymous No.20227578]

Full oft
I sought
The Truth sublime
To me
To mine
I sought no crime
But not
I found
Did I divine
The Truth
The right
Faith of the blind

[Anonymous No.20227579]

>>20227538
This is laughable. Let's look at your example, which you've removed from context, by deleting the first line of the stanza:

Prepare a Hymn, prepare a Song
The Timbrel hither bring
The cheerful Psaltry bring along
And Harp with pleasant string.

What form is this Frater? It's COMMON METER. It alternates between 4 beat lines and 3 beat. Every time. EVERY stanza in this like this -- it's regular! By cutting the first line, you've made it look like something else. Come on! Your poem is not in common meter! It's in tetrameter in EVERY LINE but the one line I quoted.

You don't understand the way in which Milton and Swinburne are irregular when they are irregular, and you think they are being irregular when they aren't. There's nothing remotely irregular about these Milton lines -- this is one of the most common verse forms in the language. It's completely standard.

You still have provided ZERO examples from your favorite classic poets that are anything like what you are doing. You quoted some perfectly regular Miltonic blank verse at me earlier, now you are quoting some perfectly regular Miltonic common meter. What are you trying to prove?

You also still haven't responded to basically any of my previous arguments -- you don't know how "senescent" scans, you are syllable counting not counting stresses, and you don't understand substitutions

> try the longer one above and not one written in literally 15 minutes kek,
The longer one is not trying to be in a specific form, so there's no point. I literally critiqued two other poems YOU pointed out as examples of your use of meter. All I've been asking for, from the beginning, is for you to give me ONE poem you wrote that shows mastery of traditional form.

[Anonymous No.20227648]

>>20227579
By the way, if you knew what you were doing you would be quoting Samson Agonistes to me at least. But that won't help you either -- the way Milton shifts the number of stresses per line is NOT the way you do. Try to find me of an example from Samson Agonistes of a tetrameter line with 10 syllables, like you are routinely doing (unintentionally, if I were to guess).

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20227666]

>>20227579
Once more, you ignore my point that meter is for the benefit of sound not for itself.

>What form is this Frater? It's COMMON METER. It alternates between 4 beat lines and 3 beat. Every time. EVERY stanza in this like this -- it's regular!


Yes because, because! The multitude of sounds, sounds good in the context! Nigger! You can use differing amounts of feet and produce musicality of various types.


> It's in tetrameter in EVERY LINE but the one line I quoted.

Again, sound is king.

>You still have provided ZERO examples from your favorite classic poets that are anything like what you are doing. You quoted some perfectly regular Miltonic blank verse at me earlier, now you are quoting some perfectly regular Miltonic common meter. What are you trying to prove?

The first showing they did not slavishly obey an iambic pattern the second showing multitude of feet is normal nigger, stop pretending like sound isn’t the actual key.

>You also still haven't responded to basically any of my previous arguments -- you don't know how "senescent" scans,

I know others scam it with an iambic rhythm but via my accent/pronunciation it is trochaic, you may disagree but that’s whatever G.

>you are syllable counting not counting stresses, and you don't understand substitutions

Again I will tell you, you can have a multitude of feet and it’s fine, I understand you’re shilling substitution insofar as regularity of feet amount and I will again repeat I do not consider it essential, as again multitude of feet is literally fine for sound.

>The longer one is not trying to be in a specific form, so there's no point.

Kek of course there is, the specific form is the content and context of each individual line and the sound overall, are you telling me you are incapable of judging usage of rhythm unless it’s in accordance with your ideal of it estranged from the actual effect?

>I literally critiqued two other poems YOU pointed out as examples of your use of meter. All I've been asking for, from the beginning, is for you to give me ONE poem you wrote that shows mastery of traditional form.

To which again, I say judge based on the sound of the poems and their rhythms coherence. If you will continue to pretend to not understand my meaning so be it, I am sure you understand my position in actuality and are just seeking the argument.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20227672]

>>20227648
Eh I wouldn’t use Samson since it’s specifically meant to be less ornate

[Anonymous No.20227725]

>>20227666
>Yes because, because! The multitude of sounds, sounds good in the context! Nigger! You can use differing amounts of feet and produce musicality of various types.
I must be really getting to you man. It's ok to not know how to scan poetry. It can be learned. Reread Fussell!

You keep just saying "sound is king" and that you are intentionally varying the line. Fine! I'm not trying to debate the merits of free verse. I'm fine with free verse! But I specifically asked you to quote me something you wrote that WASN'T in free verse. You responded with free verse poems. And I don't even believe that you are being deliberately free -- because you don't know how to scan a line, and you cited this stuff as being in form.

>The first showing they did not slavishly obey an iambic pattern the second showing multitude of feet is normal nigger, stop pretending like sound isn’t the actual key.
I've never claimed poets "slavishly follow an iambic pattern." Poets substitute feet all the time. I'm saying that you are not substituting feet. I outlined the "rules" for substituting above. You are writing free verse and telling me its blank verse. Find me ONE line in the first book of Paradise Lost that isn't a pentameter line. One line. Meanwhile your blank verse has dozens. I guess Milton was being kind of dumb by not realizing you have to drop stresses all the time in order to have good sounds.

And "multitude of feet is normal" is really not what's in question. Nobody could doubt that certain verse forms vary the stress quantity within the stanza.

>I know others scam it with an iambic rhythm but via my accent/pronunciation it is trochaic, you may disagree but that’s whatever G.
I mean I can just write anything with 10 syllables and call it iambic pentameter by this metric. Which is what you are doing.

As far as "judge based on the sound of the poems and their rhythms coherence," I could go into that but it's just a whole different conversation. I don't think you really understand the principles of the marriage of sound and sense at all. But again, this is not the point of my argument, the point is whether you understand how to write in strict form, which can be evaluated easily and objectively. And so far you still haven't 1. showed a poem you wrote in traditional form, or 2. gave a single example of a poem written in a traditional form that uses the kinds of licenses you are taking.

[Anonymous No.20227785]

>>20227578
rly not good sry

[Anonymous No.20227789]

>>20227666
>>20227725

why do either one of you care what the other thinks

[Anonymous No.20227790]

Waves of sea,
stream of a river,
busy body on hand,
As the dubs were had

[Anonymous No.20227791]

>>20227789
I just like talking about meter, man. Not that many opportunities to do it.

[Anonymous No.20227808]

>>20227791
i get the sense not many c/lit/erati are actually in the poetry world

very little metrical work gets published and is generally ignored by academia (not that i care what the academy thinks, just taking into account if you want to actually go somewhere w ur work)

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20227821]

>>20227789
Arguing is fun and arguing with people who disagree with your work is more valuable than discussing with people who like it, for you get an idea contrast, as I say in the last post it seems we’re more moving to the argue for argue sake though, which while fine I prefer more gruesome topics for that.

[Anonymous No.20227826]

>>20227821
why is ur writing so gay tho

[Anonymous No.20227858]

>>20227808
I'm not bothered by people saying dumb stuff about meter because I think I'm going to write a Miltonic blank verse epic that everyone will love or something. I just think it's depressing that this board has such a high opinion of ye olde metrical poetry but doesn't understand how it works at all.

And it's not like no metrical stuff gets talked about. Terrence Hayes probably gets talked about more than just about anybody and he uses rhyme and meter. Paul Muldoon too. Obviously it's not always the most commonly published thing, but especially in the UK it's still pretty common to find a lot of stuff that is at least engaged with traditional form.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.20227860]

>>20227826
Truly mine is the least gay in the thread, being anti homosexual in spirit, compare that to the multitude of tranny poems within, which are either tranny in content, or tranny in form.

[Anonymous No.20228000]

>>20227826
>>20227808
>>20227785
>>20210534
>>20210539
>>20210542
r/redscarepod poster detected

[Anonymous No.20228075]

It's a translation from my original. Idk, the more I look at it the more I feel like I've overcomplicated it.

I can no longer hear the sound of the grey sky's lament,
I mark down the days with my left hand on the right one.
Time is rushing ahead to an ever increasing extent,
Rather leaving me far behind the pace of its run,

Rather leaving me blackthorns to ofter fall into my lot,
Rather leaving me slumber, evermore lessened and dim.
The bottle is empty, it should be hurled out on the spot -
It won't ever fill a glass of sweet wine to the brim.

In my immured grotto the bells of the rushing clock's stroke
That are calling somewhither can be barely defined;
And through same reinforced concrete colored familiar smoke
Again my bones and the walls have been firmly aligned.

Hardly heavier than this smoke, so discarnate and light
Is this exhausted soul, gutted deep down to its very core,
That like a bird it dreams just of expanses and flight
Over blankets of fields, their colorful sight to adore.

Zero stands as a common denominator to life,
To life that is nothing but a black gaping hollow, destroyed,
Just like the stone that hangs on the neck like pain's knife
Can only pull deeper under the slough's freezing void.

Everything crumbles to splinters and pieces around,
And words are again falling down out of their place.
Each time ever quicker is closing itself the full round.
Each time ever stronger is growing the discord in pace.

The quicklime aurora of dawn is so eager to gush
At any moment already through window's black throat.
The bet with the hope is a mock that again will be crushed
By every new imminent sunrise with bitter and gloat.

Has the realm of this world even ever been otherwise?
Has the sound of her voice really ever existed indeed?
This vicious circle left to suffer and agonize
Can be envisioned only within a mute creed.

My body recalls only how the demise has begun:
With quivering needle grass under the sky's gnawed sphere
And a handful of earth on the wooden lid, the last one,
Whereunder I buried the stardust forever most dear.

Electrical current under the pulsing clock hands
Is this hell's cardinal torturer, butcher and tsar,
Who's tirelessly racing the endless flow of the sands
Of time, that's whirling away from me my ginger star.

[Anonymous No.20228139]

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

[Anonymous No.20228153]

>>20188543

Love cast away
Words crumble into dust
You're innocent but who am I to trust?

I feel the blow to turn around
Make love revive just one more time
Can we be creatures of the night?

I'm alive enough to sense you
Why am I hiding?
Are we only dying?

Your breath of life
I feel your warmth like sunshine on a rock
Sin by sin

I don't know how to turn this page
Make life revive, some day it ends
Can we be lovers in the light?

[Anonymous No.20228401]

>>20228000

despite your trips
it aint it

[Anonymous No.20228408]

>>20227858

i found your reply agreeable
except for the small point that
in america we call them yards

[Anonymous No.20228422]

>>20227860

>Truly mine is the least gay in the thread, being anti homosexual in spirit

being explicitly anti homosexual is the literally gayest thing you could do

[Anonymous No.20228580]

Plot a course to the furthest scene
Roam this wide, oceanic stream
When all destinies shall end below
In faith, seek crest and trough

The gentle rocking of a thoughtful sea
'Till death, shall carry thee

For the promess of land and shore
Brandished flame-like by hopeful sailors
Is an uprooting wind of shoal
Blowing nowhere but in the soul.

[Anonymous No.20228915]

>>20188543
She fuckingly fucked him, the fuck. Fucked fuckers, actually fuck when no ones fucking. What the fuck. That’s fucked up. No fucking way do fuckingly fucking fuckers fuck a fucking fucker, fuckingly. That’s fucking fucked. And if you fucked, with fucking fuckingly fucking, then you better be fucking fucked or fuck off.

[Anonymous No.20228933]

The emptiness, forever cold, floating with dust.
A void that remains lifeless and still.
May surprise you, it will and it honestly must.
Be cherished, admired for it may fulfil.
In silence, a promise, forever so still
Yet if one must visit, don’t be long, go with haste.
Appreciated from distance, by those with good taste.

Few have traversed this black habitation.
Those without choice, were brutally awakened.
Had to crawl back to warmth, in utmost frustration
Head covered in fabrics and remain in prostration
Be like the void, when manning your station
Hallucinate, you must, don’t use a word.
Otherwise, it’s assured you’ll be stirred by a bird.

The Goddess, by contrast, calls out into the night.
She offers the prospect of warmth and belonging.
Tells stories of sweetness and utmost delight
But for those who remain entranced by her calling.
Cornucopia of song, long sleepless nights await.
Only appreciated with scarcity, by those with good taste.

Her banshee-like beckoning, ever-present, calls forth.
Blackening sky, shrivelling grass, inhospitable lands.
Palpitations, insomnia, tossing and turning henceforth.
Will keep you from entering that God-given trance.
That everyone longs for, after such a long day
So let me give this advice, to you, if one may.

Between these two worlds, one must remain.
This place of equilibrium, perfectly balanced.
Here one will be rejuvenated. Again and again.
The long blissful sleep that’s forever unchallenged.
Words against vision, forever supplied be her ballad.
The cold of the floor, the warmth of the bed.
A kiss from the night mistress, on top of your head.

[Anonymous No.20229024]

I’m fucking drunk. So write. What else is there to do but to lay bare once thoughts on a blank slate of... blank. My gaze is lagging behind, cigarettes stain my obfuscated state of mind. Shame and everything that’s associated with... it. So boring. Disaronno is the brand I drink. Only two days left till I’m blessed by her presence. Landing by bird and by plane into the city that has been my scorn and my blessing for this passing. Sugar bags beside me. Wanting to again devolve into detailed transcription as courses have taught me to discern. I’ll refrain. Never mind. Three stripes pinched on top and on bottom — in order to close off its contents. Its creator dissatisfied because of the improper use of his product. “You’re supposed to break it in the middle, not shake it to one side to then rip off an end and pour”. If one is enticed to commit suicide at such a frivolity, then there must’ve been more dissatisfaction of life. A designer can never predict the use of its product, and once let loose onto the general public, your product’s implementation will cease to be your responsibility or concern. Let go. You fool. You’re obviously depressed. I should probably drink less. Anticipation of the unreconcilable event lay upon me like a thousand stacks of paper. I’m wearing five layers as I step out onto the shaft that is my apartments’ dwelling. A t-shirt, shirt, sweater, jacket, and blanket. Lighting a cigarette in the hallway, guilty as charged. In my intoxicated state, convincing myself of its harmlessness. Plug in those ears, dull out those senes. I blast music, shredding, shattering my eardrums. The song consumed beforehand in gleeful state, reduced to tears. In blank space I stare at the space I used to dance. Your little window into my life. My first and last post is this. Completely naive and unknowing of your house, your life, your feelings and thoughts in strive through image boards online. Yet, knowing, in contemplation, that you’re out there. Thank you. I bid you all good night.

[Anonymous No.20229036]

**Plant**

Plant green. It nice, plant in pot. White pot. Earth in pot, I put plant in pot. Hands dirty. Wash hands. Buy plant on street, plant filthy. Clean plant with cloth. Leaf by leaf. Plant nice, plant name Gerard. Plant grow good, not much sun, still grow good. Me give water to plant. Plant like. Plant grow. Water every week. Big cup, he gulp. Plant new leaf, leaf green. Me happy. Look good. Me proud. Kiss plant.

**Shoe**

Shoe. Me like shoe. Shoe is black. Shoe has scratch. Me no change shoe. Wear shoe day. No one say “You wear same shoe.” Good. They dumb. Shoe stink. Always. Sweat live in shoe, always. Always smell. New day, new sock. Sock wet from shoe. Sock wash. Shoe scratch, me sad. Black shoe, cow skin. Me rub black in scratch, shoe new. Good shoe.

**Shit**

Shit. Smell shit. It bad. Real bad. Eat shit? No bad! Mom said, it bad. Mom right. Look shit, look good at shit. No yellow in shit? No green? No red? Good shit. Me approve, me smell. Smell bad but good, my smell. You shit smell bad, you smell. Shit look good, shit safe. Me wipe. Me approve. Flush shit. Wave bye. Bye shit.

[Anonymous No.20229047]

**Horny Chaucer**

Your ass is so fine
Thy buttocks so tanned
Your countenance divine
Some might call it grand

If one calls it bland
I’ll strike them down
With feverous hand
For you wear the crown

Thou “boobage” so lean
Thou maiden in shape
So amorously clean
You’re fresh like a grape

I’ll suckle your vine
Be generous, one must
Though I must incline
To allow me to thrust

Thou body and mine
Doh I long for your bust
Shall surely entwine
The snake of your lust

Thou slithering snail
Call it churlish you might
Your plumage I’ll rail
For a saint, I ain’t right.

A friar doesn’t yearn
So lecherous and fowl
You’ll rapidly learn
As a hound I will howl

For your purse, I’ll donate
White like a cloud
A huge sum I’ll ornate
So renowned as I’ve ploughed

Your staff in your tricep
As we’ll wash and we’ll clean
To circumvent such a mishap
And smoke a pack till we’re green

Give a kiss then roll over
My amorous queen
And sleep tight like a rover
Of you I will dream

[Anonymous No.20229076]

**The Drug Dealer**

When it’s all boiled together, becomes viscous, has fused. I remain, ever wistful, and wayward, confused. Regretful, my sorrow, is packaged. Obtuse, I continue, to prosper as one tries in its youth.

I stamp and I prod, in the bowl, as it twirls, will turn, as it curls, and fill it, deranged, with illusions, grandiose, volcanically black, by the kilos it goes. We’d do this religiously, consistently, with fervour. Fanatically, succouring our pecuniary dearth. The monks with their trinkets and blessings so gracefully, set out at night on the green of this earth.

We were glad with our profits, but guilty as charged, though empty in meaning, our pockets enlarged, we’d set back that evening. Under the street lights, the pounding of clubs, parking lots and benches in parks, on the sides of the track, little black dots for a few little bucks. We knew our stuff was top-notch, served utterly right, no mixing or waining, no pollution in sight. They’d protest, couldn’t be, as they usually might, but the skeptics they fall at the taste of delight.

[Anonymous No.20229166]

>>20228915
Fuck yeah, dude!

[Anonymous No.20229500]

Final bump