/lit/ - Literature

[spongecat !ozOtJW9BFA No.2032559]

Hello /lit/ would any of you be good enough to post some of your poetry? I would like to see how most of you write and compare some of it against mine.

[Anonymous No.2032566]

haikus are hard
to write because I'm never
sure how
many words or syllables

...to use kind of seems
like a restrictive format
to me.

[Anonymous No.2032573]

a king who was mad at the time
declared limerick-writing a crime
but late in the night
the poets would write
poems with no rhyme or meter.

[Anonymous No.2032579]

I’ll
Loosen
Oblivious
Virgins
Eternally.
Romances
Are
Pointless
Endeavours.

[Anonymous No.2032583]

>>2032579
Nice

[None !nJfreZxOKY No.2032608]

A sun of moons,
Only through twilight.

[Anonymous No.2032626]

A cloth-wrapt doll arrives
broken in a box.
The man looms over it
from his porch
and decides to piece it together.
He learns a lot doing this,
figuring out which resins work
and which do not;
which joints pivot together
and which remain frozen.

On the back of the doll is a tag,
ripped off and lain,
letters faded,
cut up,
and scattered.

The man knew not where the doll came from,
but knew the doll well enough to restore it to its grace.

[Anonymous No.2032641]

I don't get poetry
Seriously, what the fuck
Was this supposed to rhyme?

[Anonymous No.2032690]

>>2032641
The only half decent ones in this thread are the "I LOVE RAPE" and the purposely shitty limerick.

As far as I know, poetry sort of reached its highest point of exhibiting language mastery sometime in the late 19th century. And then it just sort of went to shit, with people ignoring all the things that make poetry awesome or impressive.

I blame the confessional poets.

[Pointman No.2032692]

>>2032690
>>2032690

Well, these days, it's all about leaving open spaces and minimalism right?

You could almost say it's being lazy.

[Anonymous No.2032695]

>>2032690

The issue is that people are taught to write what you feel and that anything goes in poetry which isn't the case. There is meter, rhythm, rhyme and many other complex rules to understanding poetry that people don't get taught as anything goes apparently. And those poets that don't write or use rhythm are usually experts in those areas already and know how to successfully subvert the rules.

[Anonymous No.2032697]

>>2032692
I have no idea what contemporary poetry is about. I just remember hearing the American Poet Laureate read something during Obama's inauguration and face palming very, very hard. She read it like a precocious high schooler and the poem was totally uninspired.

>>2032695
>those poets that don't write or use rhythm are usually experts in those areas already and know how to successfully subvert the rules.
This seems right, but I don't get it. I mean, its like Jackson Pollock. Maybe the dude could paint gorgeous, photo-realistic portraits or something, but that doesn't change the fact that his famous paintings are just splashed paint, right?

[Anonymous No.2032702]

>>2032697
Sorry, that was wrong, it was Elizabeth Alexander. I'd assumed she was the poet laureate for some reason.

[Anonymous No.2032707]

Welp, I'm posting up my response poem to John Donne's Holy Sonnet X again.

I still need feedback for a contest, but every damn poem thread dies before I'm able to get someone.
Fear superior ends by pride,
The might of your man, an ultimate curse.
As holy as He, yet no mercy;
To allow rest is sanctuary,
For heaves that follow, in deep tombs etched,
Sin rots, along with the body.
Willing souls burn in Hell's cauterized flames,
Slaves to fate, chance, kings, and wretched despair,
Lone suffer of earthly poison, men of war, rampant plague.
Lease of my cold grip; lands, beyond Eden, with charms so lush,
To make everlasting in proud rest, tainted within chains that bind,
Am I so proud an abomination, man?
Graceful fake redemption as unclean souls lock away.
And say death truly undying; Death, thou shalt be immortal.


It's written basically from the perspective of Death himself.

[Anonymous No.2032711]

>>2032702
Here's her poem. This is shit to me, I don't get how this is worth listening to or reading.


Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

[Pointman No.2032713]

>>2032711
>>2032711

Mind mentioning what exactly about it you don't like?

I'd be interested to follow your thoughts here.

Also, >>2032707

>>2032707 is me.

Just thought I'd...clarify that.

[Anonymous No.2032726]

>>2032713
The first five stanzas don't do anything for me, except establish a feeling of mundane normalcy (which I think is intentional). The writer seems to go out of her way to make the language of those stanzas uninteresting.

Then the sixth stanza is vacuous, but pompous. It seems meant to be a turning point, but I only say that because the second half of the poem obviously deviates from the above, and this is the only stanza that sticks out like a sore thumb.

Seventh stanza romantically evokes manifest destiny, which was actually an atrocity of huge proportions.

The rest of it is about the contrast between slavery and today, with the underlying Hope (copyright 2008, Obama Marketing Ltd.) for progress.

It all feels very obvious, simple and idyllic, but I guess in that sense it does a good job of capturing what a lot of people were feeling that day.

Anyway, it doesn't move me at all, doesn't challenge me at all, doesn't even sound pretty or well composed. It's just shitty.

[Pointman No.2032729]

>>2032726
>>2032726

Hahaha, yeah I could see all of that there - some parts of it phrase well when I'm reading it aloud, though I could EASILY see how this could be read uninspired.

The piece as a whole is pretty bland.

[Anonymous No.2032743]

>>2032729
Well, I guess a lot of people agreed with that. http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2009-01-25/news/0901240115_1_poem-inaugural-poet-bad-review

Actually, I REALLY like this dude's completely stripped down version of the original poem:

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of;
We be President now.

This version has a power to it that, to me, is totally lost in the long-ass meandering that is the original one. But then it would have been fucking awesome if it just ended with the last line that I added.

[Anonymous No.2032745]

QUACK QUACK

SPLATTERED THE CRAZY DUCK
WIGGLING HIS TAIL
RUNNING AMOK

YOU SO CRAZY, YOU CRAZY FUCK

QUACK QUACK

NOW MUTTERED THE DUCK

BE GONE, YOU BEAST WITH A PENIS OF THE LENGTH THAT CAUSES ENVY AMONG A MANY

QUACK QUACK

NO DUCK, NO!!!!!!!!!!!

NEXT THING I KNOW, WHACK

MY PANTS WERE DACKED

QUACK QUACK

NO, DUCK, NOT THE BUM HOLE!!!

QUACK QUACK QUACK

NOOOOOOOOO

AND MANY A TIME THE DUCK CONTINUED TO DEPOSIT HIS SEED INSIDE OF ME

QUACKING AWAY, WIGGLING HIS TAIL, RUNNING AMOK

INSIDE MY TIGHT LITTLE NAUGHTY.....................


DUCK!!

[Anonymous No.2032756]

All around frowns bring down
those who choose to look at views
as only obsevational.

Walk tall
because you need to hit your head
against the nearest door frame.
A stern reminder
that today you have a house,
and tomorrow
you might be dead.

[Pointman No.2032770]

>>2032707
>>2032707

Eh, anyone?

Annnnyone?

[Anonymous No.2032832]

>>2032770
I wish I could help because you have given good feed back on some of mine.. but I don't know what to say about your poem.

[Pointman No.2032915]

>>2032832
>>2032832

I don't follow - is it that bad? Have you never read Holy Sonnet X so you can't judge? Do you honestly just not have the time/expertise to adequately judge?

I mean, any of these is understandable, I'd just like to know.

[Anonymous No.2032932]

>>2032915

>is it that bad?
I don't think it is that bad.

>Have you never read Holy Sonnet X so you can't judge?
This is a contributing factor. No I have not read Holy Sonnet X. But I will now.


>Do you honestly just not have the time/expertise to adequately judge?
I always feel incomprtant judging other peoples poems.

Probably the only thing I have to say is:

If the original that you are responding to is a sonnet, wouldn't it make sense to reaspond as a sonnet?

[Pointman No.2032955]

>>2032932
>>2032932

That...yeah, that is one thing I should probably do before entering this.

Well, at least I got you to read John Donne.

HAHA YEAH READING ROCKS, ANON!

[Anonymous No.2032961]

>>2032932
>>2032915
Maybe one thing...

>Slaves to fate, chance, kings, and wretched despair,

This line appears to be only slightly changed from the original. Maybe, if it is from death's perspective, death would talk about having no sight for sociatal heirarchy.

Take no heed of kings, nor chance nor fate, and call forward wreched despair,
I am called to poisons and plague and war, I do not call them...

I don't know.... just throwing in 2c to make things muddy and unclear.

I think in the end, after readin the two side by side. Your response is a bit disjointed. The sentences make no sense read without the new line.

[Anonymous No.2032964]

>>2032955
Thanks, I don't read much poetry and am glad to find this.

[Anonymous No.2034045]

If ever you should lonely stand
against a raging wind,
on lakes of wearing, churning sand,
with mind awash in sin,

or walk a wrong road endlessly
to seek out where it goes,
an exercise in fantasy,
of lust and curling toes,

walk quietly and do not breath,
and do not stop when near
move whispered thoughts and thoughts to leave
and thunderous hints of fear.

There ancient minds and angel's light
meet eyes lit melancholy,
where flickers anger, or delight,
and both when humans folly;

There murky depths of haunted rivers
plague the forest floors
where boatmen move their cargo thither
and steer with rotten oars.

No scent of spring you'll find in March,
nor snow by Christmas day
has graced, or will, the treetops parched
by frost and lack of rain.

Here he sits, with one eye fixed
on future fields where fight
his legions restlessly betwixt
a moonless tide and night.

[wrists No.2034058]

Does /lit/ not like Andrea Gibson?

Also, poem:

Peel away at me.

There is an antelope girl
running through my veins
and the slope of my spine

all the steps of my discs
selfishly grind
as she climbs surefooted
into the gulf of my mind.

She peels me like brackets
segmented orange skin.
My savannah rustles.

I think she's a sin.

We spoon mornings
double comma into the song
of her swelling form;

we make ourselves up as we go along.

[Anonymous No.2034083]

I like to touch my dick at night
It makes me feel so very right

When I stroke my member
Then I finally remember

She was a girl like any other,
The day I fucked your mother.

[Anonymous No.2034097]

>>2032559
Now if you don't mind,
Let me take up your time,
And in this remind bring back from time,
A favourite piece of mine,
That now in recall seems sickly divine
Only in this coil of twine,
This great mortal bind,
Which can no more be defined
Than the sweetest sip of wine,
Simply tossed aside,
One bottle at a time.

[Anonymous No.2034100]

I call this poem:
Falling Leaves From A Peach Tree

I sit here alone, naked, with my penis errect
I cum semen in the air, a geysir quite perfect
I suddenly clutch my chest so tight
There is absolutely no reason to fight

I got a massive heart attack
There is no turning back
I
t must have been that
number nine, a number nine large,
a number six with extra sauce,
a number seven,
two number forty-fives,
one wit' cheese,
and a large soda.

That can fell any man, but I have lived a great life
I even murdered, skinned, gutted and cooked my wife

Now I slice my dick off and bleed out
Blood is all that comes out of my throat

My blood it clots like a giant cone
Its like it is saying YOU'RE FOREVER ALONE

Arigato

[Anonymous No.2034109]

>>2034100

I feel like there was some mixed response here, maybe I should go back to /v/

[Anonymous No.2034112]

>>2034045
>walk quietly and do not breath,
>rhymes with leave

Shouldn't that be breathe?

[Anonymous No.2034114]

>>2034083

>She was a girl like any other,
>The day I fucked your mother.


That's fucking brilliant.

[Anonymous No.2034120]

Why you guys no like my poems? At least I take it from the heart and not pretentious dribble.

I call this last one: The Final Drop of Water From the Wings of a Burning Butterfly Taking Flight In A Dream By a Caterpillar


My life consist of few essentials indeed,
I might now wear hats and suits made of reed,
Its not like I never read a book
But when I try I never get the hook

So instead I dance naked to electronic sounds,
I do so hope the neighbour does not release the hounds,
This is the fiftinth bottle of scotch
This is an operation is must have to botch

Oh wait I have a great idea, my dear self
What if I bend my neck by the shelf
And try to suck my own giant dick
Even though it would make me seem the prick

I tried and I tried, and suddenly a crack,
So much pain, and I fell, it was my back
I could not move, my body was like lead
Hey, dude, guess what, I was completely dead

THE END

THANK YOU
IT FELT SO GOOD TO GET OUT MY FEELINGS AND JUST SPILL IT OUT

[Anonymous No.2034124]

>>2034114
I second this.

[Anonymous No.2034128]

>>2034114
>>2034124

You actually liked it? Wow.

Does that mean I can be a library hipster now and show up at jazz bars and drink wine with the law students?

[Anonymous No.2034160]

>>2034128
I'm just saying you said something funny dude. It made me laugh, and it has a really nice ring to it. Sounds perhaps like something one engaging in a rap battle may say.

I laughed at your joke and you are being a dick about it?