Poetry Critique Thread

[Anonymous No.6188231]

Come post your shitty poems and hope desperately for the praise of your peers.

Here's mine:

The last great manhunt has drawn to a close,
Sheriff Johnson's men have finally cornered Pete Donner
in the dead-end of a red canyon.
In silent realization,
the posse and the banditos clear the path,
and into the ring of onlooking eyes
strides Jack Ringer, his late father's white stetson
pulled just over his face.
Across the circle, Donner chuckles at the sight of him
(which sends his banditos cackling like dry leaves)
"Boy" he sneers "some men just don't know when to die".
Each man meets his rival's gaze,
stares into each other's violent pasts,
as men who have met too many times before
and now prepare for their final parting.

There are children of red stones
who lie at the tops of these canyons.
They have watched,
from beyond the circular frame,
every great duel to unfold here.
They wager gemstones and tiny reptiles,
(wise ones knowing that
the odds never fail White Hat),
and as the pivotal moment draws near, they
beat upon the goat-skins of drums
and strum strings of cat's-gut
until the sound of fire cuts them short
and the loser falls to the ground.
But today they are gone.
A circus has come to town
and the hills are blind and silent.

Flanked by their most loyal sidekicks,
the dueling men draw their revolvers
and fire:
CRACK
and seeing themselves still standing
CRACK CRACK CRACK
CRACK CRACK
and with twelve shots gone, they look and see
that neither weapon has pierced a single shirt.
Without those invisible eyes above them,
without the stakes of a child's bet placed upon them,
without the faint strains of music echoing about them,
their duel is empty.
A game with no field.
Both gangs stand unharmed,
exchange looks of disbelief,
then silently mount their horses
and take their separate paths out of the canyon,
their guns finally at rest in their holsters.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6188256]

So what exactly makes this a poem? If it's supposed to be blank verse, it's the roughest blank verse I've ever read.

[Anonymous No.6188292]

>>6188256
You don't know what blank verse is, but I agree this has nothing that makes it poetry. Just writing random shit and putting arbitrary line breaks. No rhythm, vocabulary of a 10 year old, etc etc.

Sorry OP but you actually need to try, y'know. It's hip these days to think that spilling out whatever comes to mind is meaningful, or better than something that is edited into a metric, but no. You do not have the natural sense of rhythm required, for one thing. What the fuck is the purpose of your poem? You're just telling a boring narrative? It's not meaningful, it's not aesthetic, it's not poetry.

[Anonymous No.6188321]

>>6188256
you mean free verse.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6188338]

>>6188292
I know exactly what blank verse is. I read the first block of this and some lines happened to be in some sort of rough metre. Hence why I was asking if this was supposed to be blank. Supposed to be. I assumed he was just awful at scanning because nothing else makes this a poem.

[Anonymous No.6188646]

>>6188292
OP here
The rhythm is shit, that's fair, but if you read this at anything other than the simplest surface level interpretation, it's apparent that there is meaning beyond the (intentionally simple and cliched) narrative. Maybe if you weren't in such a rush to make yourself look smart you'd recognize that.

[Anonymous No.6188718]

I posted this in the last thread but got no responses so I'll just repost it. I haven't ever written a real poem outside of short writing exercises for a few weeks of poetry club in school, but I've felt more like trying it recently and wrote this yesterday.

---

Half past three the tide rolls in
Ships come back and surfers do
sweep themselves right back to shore
cut their feet on ocean floor
or else be swept and carried far
by powers past their mortal reach

Who swims out far into the tide
and scarcely turns back but to look
at once, too late - Apollo's light
Now sunk to some perplexing height
Has left you in the midst of sea
Whose image now would this one be?

The waves do mimic such a being
Whose thoughts stay clear of earthy things
And lives divine and most carefree
With heart and bay and hand at sea
Who looks here toward the moon and says
Oh here, oh now I've found my glass?
And just then pass with judgement passed
The fate of one man out of many
Netted once then willed away
Whose soul did leave by idle hands
And glimpse the source on its departure


>>6188231
I'm pretty bad at evaluating blank verse, but the subject matter is pretty unique and it's nice. The ending seems a bit off, though, and it seems a little awkward once separated from the obvious symbolism meant to be there.

[Anonymous No.6188796]

>>6188718
I like this poem quite a bit. The occasional rhyme gives it a good flow and the imagery is very evocative.

[Anonymous No.6188838]

Like the last bit of coffee;
dripping and trickling out of the cup,
essence is ticking closer to an end.
Discarded and soon long gone;
reduced to a missing unwanted friend.
The unwanted care like caring for a drop would be
a drop too much.
Care enough to see the issues
will only be achieved through a blink;
misused and too few.
So let it pass. So let it go.
Let it flow away
like a drop of brewed morning dew.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6188879]

>>6188718
Not bad. I like the second stanza, the last two lines in particular struck me as 'nice'.
If I had one thing to say about this is that it sounds very songish. I don't know if it's because of the diction, the sparse rhyming, or the rhythm itself but I could imagine this being sung by some sixties surf rock band.
On second thought, it's the rhythm that does it.
>Half past three, the tide rolls in
Read that out loud and tell me you can't hear that over rock music.

[Anonymous No.6188902]

>>6188796
Thanks, one of my favorite things in poetry to experiment with has been rhyme scheme, since it's actually much more flexible than it would ever appear at first glance.

>>6188879
To tell you the truth, I've been listening to a lot of Captain Beefheart recently and have wanted to make something like his lyrics at one time or another, so I probably made some parts fitting for a song unintentionally.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6188968]

>>6188838
> Like the last bit of coffee;
Starting a poem with a similie is offputting, or at least it is for me.
> dripping and trickling out of the cup,
Bland imagery. Cliché m8
> essence is ticking closer to an end.
Again, ticking? This is probably one of the most overused images in poetry. I also don't like the use of 'essence' here.
> Discarded and soon long gone;
'soon long gone' doesn't make sense. It's an oxymoron. Clumsy wording.
> reduced to a missing unwanted friend.
This is hard to follow. There are blanks in this poem that make sense in your head but we don't know what to fill in.
> The unwanted care like caring
> for a drop would be
> a drop too much.
This whole bit right here sounds awkward and is rather convuluted for just saying "they care little."
> Care enough to see the issues
> will only be achieved through a blink;
What does that mean? A blink? Of what? Here's what the average person knows: Blinks are short, they're fast. They're ephemeral yet repeat endlessly. They have to do with eyes. You can't see when you blink. None of this really applies or can be applied here, or at least my lateral thinking skills aren't seeing a way. Would love to hear your explanation.
> misused and too few.
Alright
> So let it pass. So let it go.
LET IT GOOOOO, LET IT GOOOOOO
> Let it flow away
Like snow, eh?
> like a drop of brewed morning dew.
And we return to the coffee. Morning dew is bad to use here to avoid saying coffee again, I think. It feels forced, like you didn't want to repeat the word coffee and you remembered you were writing a poem so you plugged in a phrase that sounds poetic but doesn't really make sense. Dew isn't brewed and doesn't really relate with the symbol at all other than being a liquid.

[Anonymous No.6189060]

>>6188968
Your critique is on-point, I won't argue with you.
This is my first attempt at something that could almost be called a poem.
> Discarded and soon long gone;
The oxymoron was on purpose but it does come off as clumsy. I tried to show how things that don't matter to someone will fade from memory and relevance quickly.
> reduced to a missing unwanted friend
Another use of oxymoron to show the absurdity of forgetting something one once chose to indulge in. Missing like the last bit of coffee or as a forgotten friend.
> This whole bit right here sounds awkward and is rather convuluted for just saying "they care little."
I see what you mean. The issue of trying to make it fit a "theme" but ending up making it cliche.
> Care enough to see the issues
> will only be achieved through a blink;
Overuse of oxymoron should be the theme of this attempt of a poem.
What I thought was something like- those that do care enough to perceive the issues of forgetting what once had value can only do so in short flashes, like a blink. "irony"
> LET IT GOOOOO, LET IT GOOOOOO
Made me laugh, you're right
> like a drop of brewed morning dew.
I wrote " drop of morning dew" in my first draft but changed it in the end to bring it back to coffee. Morning dew seemed to give the impression that things clear up by letting go as well, but I felt like keeping the purity the same.
Most of the cliche words used could be since I'm Swedish so it's a bit difficult to pick up on things like that.
Thanks!

[Anonymous No.6189087]

>>6188718
Really good, anon!

[Anonymous No.6189106]

You wake up filled with dread.
There seems no reason for it.
Morning light sifts through the window,
there is birdsong,
you can’t get out of bed.

It’s something about the crumpled sheets
hanging over the edge like jungle
foliage, the terry slippers gaping
their dark pink mouths for your feet,
the unseen breakfast— some of it
in the refrigerator you do not dare
to open— you will not dare to eat.

What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
immense as outer space.
You could get lost there.
No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density
and drowned events pressing you down,
like sea water, like gelatin
filling your lungs instead of air.

Forget all that and let’s get up.
Try moving your arm.
Try moving your head.
Pretend the house in on fire
and you must run or burn.
No, that one’s useless.
It’s never worked before.

Where is it coming from, this echo,
this huge No that surrounds you,
silent as the folds of the yellow
curtains, mute as the cheerful

Mexican bowl with its cargo
of mummified flowers?
(You chose the colours of the sun,
not the dried neutrals of shadow.
God knows you’ve tried.)

Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.
Who is it, exactly, you have needed
all these years to forgive?

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6189141]

>>6189060
Ah, well as long as you can explain your reasoning regarding certain things it's a bit better. Just remember that a poem exists independent of the poet, and should be able to stand on its own. I suppose a reader could look deep enough to reason out the oxymorons and what not but you've got to consider the average reader's attention span, you know? Also, what I do personally a lot of the time (especially with amateur poets) is reason these things out, and then assume I'm looking too deep into it and just blame it on the faulty of the author. Then when it's explained that these things /were/ done with purpose, it's a bittersweet surprise because hey, it was done with purpose! but flustered because the author really expected me to think of that?
But at this point I'm rambling.

Considering this is your first real attempt at poetry, it could be a lot worse. My best advice to you would be to just read a ton of poetry. Being familiar with poetic imagery used by the greats will help you know what to look for when you're writing and what to avoid as well.

[Anonymous No.6189149]

>>6189106
Sup, Margaret? Didn't know that a 75 year old browse 4chan.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6189213]

>>6189106
Atwood is truly an awful writer.

[Anonymous No.6189220]

Ever-growing; a dark overwhelming cloud
pass over oblivious minds.
It brings stillness to the trembling of a sleepless city.
A line of silver rust envelops a developing disaster
forming over the heads of sheep with far too many herders.
The burden of soulless living affects the unaffected.
Thundering outbursts shake the unshaken.
The storm is come and there is no response.
We are all dead.

Your atoms are mine.
Your energy is mine,
your substance follows, all mine!
The scraps left for the vultures.
Hollow souls seep through the cracks of the city.
Nothing is lost but a rusty silver lining that
once shined bright around your soul.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6189260]

>>6189220
>tips fedora: the poem
In all seriousness, use less descriptors. Quite a few adjectives and adverbs in there, which I don't think are inherently bad but like I said, there are quite a few. I believe they're the poorest way to build atmosphere, which would seem to me a heavy part of your poem.
Have you posted this before? I feel like I read it a long time ago.

[King of nicotine No.6189303]

>>6189260
I might have have posted this before but I doubt it. But in your defense, the angsty fedora flavored fiction that gets posted on this site do resemble each other.

[Anonymous No.6189320]

A flower cannot know who stops to watch
It waits
Silent
Reposed

[Anonymous No.6189454]

>>6189260
>>6189303
>>/lit/thread/4223126#p4225528

[Anonymous No.6189752]

This thread made me want to look back through all of my poetry, and I found a notebook filled with poems that I wrote when I was fourteen. Most of them obviously unfinished.

How was fourteen-year-old-me's poetry, /lit/?

>Sitting at the break of dawn I remain
>with the taste of tobacco lingering upon my tongue,
>in a room of four spirits where I emerge the sole prevailing consciousness.
>Blistering bleak crack of daylight with no sunlight
>and a plate of baked cookies since scattered across the floor.
>No breast's fine legs nor cock and balls to satisfy my ever-longing soul
>which hungers for heated skin rubbing animalistically on heated skin,
>the ever-present gnaw in gut for physical to placate physical
>while the human earthworms writhe in android's engineered comfort convenience
>longing in the throes of hollow adolescent disposition.
>Mad binary lapse of traditional values seeking baseless understanding of human anatomy
>as Forms have become useless to its emaciated spiritual composition in heat of trivial pursuit.
>But see! the withered willow cries in gasping breathless breaths,
>for lonely crying ghost of spirit's whispy tethered death

[Anonymous No.6190275]

i'll just some stuff i wrote today, it's not very edited, i know it's bad but i'd like some pointers if anyone could help me out.

++++++

Shaved because i know you like that
and i miss you, and
it's only been four days since a last saw you
but it's been two since we've talked and
even though i don't think you like me the way i like you
it would still be nice
to be
near you

++++

Jagged bangs, how many ships have fallen embracing you? I fear I too am beginning to sink (salt in shoes, a general discontentment).

+++++

I certainly do
have quite a lot of feelings, as you put it,
now I am seeing
a floral dress,
a light brush of eyelids.

+++++

As I walked, I realized that as long as I live I will never be as old as these stones, and I laughed. I felt small and insignificant, and I realized what it means, to me, to be alive: to truly know that you are going to die.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6190447]

>>6189752
Well it's overly figurative and a bit heavy handed, but other than that it's basically indistinguishable from the rest of /lit/'s poetry which is a compliment for a poem written by a 14 year old.
>>6190275
I'm not going to bother breaking down each poem individually because there's no point trying to improve them, so I'll go ahead and skip straight to the pointers.

I'm gonna go ahead and assume you're young based on these, and you're new to poetry, which is fine.
As a man that's been writing for years, reading for longer, and has written literally thousands of poems, I never ever write poems about women. No, I'm not a homosexual. The reason is that it's such a dead, over-done, beaten subject that absolutely nobody wants to read about unless it's from somebody that has mastered the form because 99% of the time, amateur writers have nothing new to say. It's also a very personal subject so it's difficult to get the reader to relate to it. Of course, writing poems about women (or significant others, whatever) isn't forbidden, just keep in mind that unless you're amazing, nobody beyond you or the person it's written about is going to be too thrilled to read it. It is, on the other hand, a great way to express your feelings and let it out, so to speak. Sort of like a diary I suppose.

Next thing I want to address is your line breaks. Boy oh boy, I can't tell you how many poems I've read that do the same thing; writing words that don't belong in a prose piece so the author adds in line breaks and calls it a poem.
Ask yourself, "what makes this a poem?" If your answer is "lineation" or "line breaks", you're doing it wrong. This is my main gripe with most free verse. It doesn't serve a purpose beyond blended up sentimental wankery and it often comes off as choppy and pretentious, the latter especially so to an experienced reader. Look at famous poets that write free verse: TS Eliot, e.e cummings, any number of the modernist poets. The things they do with free verse is innovative, serves a purpose, and it doesn't seem forced or lazy at all.

I suppose my best advice to you, like my advice to any new poet, is to put down the pen for now and read read read and reread the greats. Harold Bloom's advice to me a long time ago was to read and reread Shakespeare. He couldn't stress the importance of reading enough, much as I do today. Reading a wide variety of great poetry is probably the most important aspect becoming a good poet. You become familiar with what makes a poem good, and learn more and more what to avoid. You're able to experience firsthand what a good poem looks like, what sort of devices which poets use, how they use them, why they use them; you become aware what's been done and what's cliché. Emulate until you're able to do it on your own. Read, friend.

[Anonymous No.6190543]

>>6190447
Thank you, anon. I'm currently making my initial steps into poetry, and, being rather unfamiliar with it, have been reading lots and lots of it. These are very good insights. I'm currently reading Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet," in which he makes several of the points you have made to me. I'll save this post, and reflect upon it more as I develop as a writer. Thank you for providing serious insight that I don't tend to expect from 4chan.

[Anonymous No.6190585]

/fit/ here. trying to get more in touch with my creative side. this is one of my first poems so it would be nice if you guys could help me identify what parts are weakest in terms of cadence, word choice, etc. thx

Manlets are stupid
Manlets are dumb;
Girls find them ugly and worthless
In fact, they are scum!

They huff and they puff
Trying to bench twice their weight,
Always in search
Of another plate.

Lifting and tanning:
Two things the manlet enjoys most.
But at the club he’s unnoticed;
A tiny orange ghost.

Standing on his toes
He tries to compensate
Because rare, indeed, is the manlet
Resigned to his fate.

These lessons, it seems,
The manlet refuses to learn.
Instead he shitposts on /fit/
Shouting you’re a lanklet, BURN!

[Anonymous No.6190599]

>>6190585

Your meter is garbage
The cadence was slain
I suspect circulation
Can't quite reach your brain

[Anonymous No.6190632]

>>6190599
yeah I can tell, but no matter how much I play around I can't seem to get it quite right while still touching on all the dank memes I want to include.

>tfw can express myself with weights but not with words

i just wanna be patrish

[Anonymous No.6190704]

>>6188231
I though this was really good but I'm too faded to tell you why ayyy lmao

[Anonymous No.6190838]

It doesn't come
It's gone
It's not coming
Stop hoping for it
Kill it, be done
It won't happen

Dear Christ it has all come to this
Spark, please, be free
Please send it
Be gold

Only swirl,
Swirl and nothing else

What are these things
That are always happening
This constant buzz
We say we lose it
And pass it
But this IS it
But don't we all know that?
Do we fool ourselves and yet?

Spark nothing it doesn't come
Help
No more of these words can be spewed
But for what
For what reason
You are not the god of your view
You don't control the platform
Seasons be blown off and yet?
Why?
For what?
You don't even know
Know one knows
Jesus Christ
You think THIS is it?
THIS is what you are to do
For what you were intended?
Every moment is passing and you think you are in it
But only god can exist like that
You think you're satisfied
You fool
You live the fool
Jump off.


What have I written?
This is nothing. What am I here for?
FUCK WORDS

[Anonymous No.6190853]

(i know this is poorly written and edgy, i apologize in advance, just wanted to share something)

My mouth trembles as

rushed words gather rope

looking for the nearest exit

nervousness gnaws away any attempts

towards successful escape

redemption nullified

onlookers smirk and offer a glance

while borrowing the oral shame

creating self gratification out of grief

as the words float through space

all forms of dignity wrung out

of the tongue

the pulsating mop

soaking up the shame

hiding it underneath a ribbon of pink flesh

the janitor calls in sick

without even lifting a limb

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6193029]

>>6190838
this is very pretentious and beats around the bush. i'm also not a fan of your haphazard lineation. read more poetry

>>6190853
you know it's edgy, why share? nonetheless you've potential if you ditch the deplorable free verse and learn form because it actually wasn't as annoying to read as I thought it was going to be at first glance. but still.

[Anonymous No.6193181]

>>6193029
Poetry does not do
Quite what I need
The swirls speak better
They let me be free
Of what I cannot say
As words are so bleak
Please, gold, come
Let me be free.

[Anonymous No.6193230]

Every thanksgiving,
My family gets smaller.
Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to Florida.
Gone to see the lord.

Funerals are how
I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies.
He’s there, a fixture,
almost a cliche,
like a great aunt in black veil
weeping into a floral
handkerchief.

Today, at this funeral,
a thin layer ice
has frozen the ground.
Black dress shoes
crunch ridged footprints into the
top layer of snow.

Every funeral is always cold. I shiver in my dress
shirt and peacoat;
Hands in pockets, I hunch forward,
watching my breath hit the winter wind – an evaporated sadness,
like God.

Thanksgiving. The gravy boat
on the counter
lets off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick
on my potatoes,
a shadow dances in the dark corner of the dining room.

The days after a funeral are
filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow,
every unexplained noise
is a visitation.

I jerk my to head the corner of the room. Nothing.
Glancing back at the table,
I look at his empty seat, reminded

that I shared his name.
I have the same smile; slim, stretching,
no exposed teeth.

I drink like he drank when he was
my age,
days, nights at a time,
stumbling home from dark pubs,
watching, with blurred vision,
whisky breath hit the winter wind,
and evaporate, almost as fast as God.

After the turkey and the pie and the coffee,
I go down to the basement, alone.

A broken ceiling lamp sputters light.
I hear footsteps tapping upstairs.

I pour myself a stiff
rum and coke.

And I remember.

[Anonymous No.6193256]

Horizon

one mile deep and all decay

weightless embrace, no struggler may stray

from murky conduct’s dark remiss

and no light to penetrate the submerged abyss.

dive down thoughts, lest ye betray

your inner conscience, the true path ye stay.

no sky’s fire sears the deepest below

unless he stray upward with intent hollow.

purest striver, journey to bathe in sun’s rays

only to discover the way lasts many more days

for even the holiest of hollies cannot command an order

a moment beyond horizon’s border.

[Anonymous No.6193274]

>>6193256
"Ye" comes out of nowhere, and the antiquated touch isn't played out enough to come off as effective. The language is kind of confused. Kudos for following a rhythm, but the rhymes seem clunky and cheesy.

[Anonymous No.6193830]

Not every poem rhymes
but this one does.

[Anonymous No.6194093]

HQSSG is a fraud. His critiques aren't totally off-mark, but he's a very sloppy critic, and I've seen him fundamentally misunderstand a lot of poetry and poetic terms.

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6194151]

>>6194093
>fundamentally misunderstand a lot of poetry and poetic terms
Like what? I've been "doing" poetry for a long time.

[Anonymous No.6194351]

>>6188231
Roses are red
violets are blue
fuck free verse
and fuck OP too

[Anonymous No.6194687]

>>6194351
Work on your meter

[Anonymous No.6194959]

>>6193230
only good post.

My own, from a few years ago, that has been swimming in my head the last few weeks.

Spoiled the mint phrase
In who do we trust
from the first crawl to the last in the dust
there is no escape
alone from our fate

Hear now and ended, the pleasures of plenty
are frozen parts by the dead of the empty

[Anonymous No.6194974]

>>6193230
only good post

Spoiled the mint phrase
In who do we trust
from the first crawl to the last in the dust
there is no escape
alone from our fate

Hear now and ended, the pleasures of plenty
are frozen parts by the dead of the empty

[Anonymous No.6194981]

>>6194974
same fag here new to 4chan apparently

[Anonymous No.6195580]

>>6193230
>>6194959
>>6194974
Samefag

[Anonymous No.6195597]

>>6195580
u are a very good detective. nice sleuthing.

[Anonymous No.6195667]

>>6188231
Tampa to New Orleans

I only took thirty milligrams
to the Alabama border,
but all along the way
There was nothing but,
strip malls—half abandoned
in the wet-heat summer,
drying beach towels
hanging over rusty railings
on run down motels ten feet off
highways leading north,
snaking through old tourist towns,
and new trailer parks.
Neighborhoods of the fifty five
and dying—crowds of seagulls
huddled around dumpsters
and a kid wearing a Budweiser shirt
pushing a wheelbarrow full of cat carcasses.
For five hours, until the pan handle
when everything turned into the pleasant country
people hear about on the radio.

[Anonymous No.6195679]

Didn't know there was a thread strictly for poetry critique. I'll repost this.

I stood atop a nameless hill,
So strong and swelled in pride,
I stood there and I fought there
And at last twas there I died.

The smoke and gunshots rang about,
Fire filling up the air.
Gentlemen with smallswords
Charged off here and ev'rywhere.

The battle went quite well at first,
Or so passed round the word.
We held the line, dirty gray
Against the deep blue horde.

But then the cry went up aloud:
"The general's dead! Away!"
Our panic rose, a great flood
That caught all within its sway.

The line was broken on that hill,
That clump of filthy mud.
And what came of my pride then?
Naught but dirt and fatal blood.

[Anonymous No.6195691]

Back in the Bush Days

I’d devour your face sweet thing,
Nightmare sticks tapping
Behind red striped porcelain.
Is this your idea of magic?

I’d open those wounds again,
Beautiful, dreams of melting
Faces, bodies pressing against
Glass doors until they shatter
And let their souls come rushing
In after us—lost in the Bush Dynasty.

I’d tear you down again, desire—
You pleasure pulsing pair of tits,
Or God forbid: feet. Oh, I wouldn’t,
Know what to do with myself.
When is the revolution starting?
You saved me.

[Anonymous No.6195694]

Colorado, New Mexico

I was witnessed-to by a Jesus salesman in Deming,
name was Jessica, but I called her Colorado,
at a coffee shop, before a hailstorm, situated between
an article on the most obnoxious Starbucks drinks,
a pair of six inch Steve Maddens and ominous cloud
formations falling off the mountains northward.

Thinking about the sociology thesis I had sex with
the previous weekend: thorn sided mosh pit of toosh.
A real estate investor in Boulder, she was mentioning
her new Audi in stride, that's nice, but I flirted
with the Barista anyway—who unfortunately turned
out to be a lesbian. Back on the road through
the storm who nearly cracked the windshield
"What's the point of staying put?" She'd asked
into the desert. We told her we were all Catholic.

[Anonymous No.6195699]

Religious Practices

Short-Shorts, pink hair, and lots of candy
dance when the sky turns red
and those brilliant booms and
cracks and slides and drops
make your heart beat faster.

You were in the desert once, my darling.
You wore the natural version then.
Everything was analog, and the colors
were more pastel and less neon.

Push them all away if you have to,
or grab them all, who cares.
Spin and shake and tangle your body
into knots of that purest emotion, because
those sound waves speak, and the earth whispers too,
and if you close your eyes and listen you can hear it saying,
live for this moment.

No, but there's not enough pink, or white, or orange, or green substances
in the world for you, baby. You got a high tolerance for life.
That's what I like about you. Always down to camp in the mud
for five days, and drift away and listen to those sounds when the lights go down.
So grab another bottle, paint your face, forget about your job for a weekend,
come party with us. Come feel your body shudder and glisten and mold
into the ritual. The dance. The drum. Bass blasting through your heart,
and into your goddamn soul.

[Anonymous No.6197555]

Bump

[Anonymous No.6198861]

>>6188646
>Maybe if you weren't in such a rush to make yourself look smart

Listen to your own advice.

[Anonymous No.6198888]

>free verse
intothetrash

[Anonymous No.6198914]

>>6198888
Quads can't lie.

[Anonymous No.6199937]

You are less than
Half my age minus ten
Your body is sixteen
Your face is ten
I want to have sex with you
okay?

[Anonymous No.6199986]

something stupid i just wrote while watching the amazing race.

Do other countries have alcoholics,
Complete with Alcoholic Anonymous meetings,
And all?
I can just imagine the great samurais of Japan
Sitting around in folding chairs talking about
How the last time they had sake, they got intimate
With an Octopus.
Maybe it is just
The American dream.
If it isn’t.
The Germans host their meetings,
In those big cathedrals with paintings by some
Schnoodle Noodle that everyone publicly wished
Was Leonardo DaVinci. Or the other ninja turtle.
They would just drink beer anyway,
They are just there because of the Meister.
Do those middle eastern countries talk about how
The United States has a far superior menu at
McDonalds.
“Hey Sanjeep how is your McPaneer.”
“Mediocre, it’ll never compare to the
Bigger Mac, you just can’t get good Cow in India
anymore.”
Those bastards over at Gliese 581g are lookin down
At us with their fancy spy equipment they stole
From the Egyptians, watching us coherently complain
About incoherencies. Ziaglestor looks at its Pomfro
In disgust telling it to take notes and it has a problem.
In anger it says that it doesn’t have a problem, that is just
What Liberal America wants you to think.
And takes another sip of its
Four Loko.
The answer to all this should take suit to those
Peace corps guys, and send groups of patriots who already
Completed twelfth step, (or would that be called the thirteenth step)
To far-away lands.
Their job Would be to go around building high school gymnasiums to
Eventually relapse in.

[Anonymous No.6200622]

Posted in the other critique thread, but no responses.

[A little poem, comments? No.6200786]

He saw two belligerently that savored all complexion of him
That it might somehow a thing of endless boundless beauty and symphony secede
Is part of any man’s gamechanger
Sweet, conundrum-like in sincerity
Marred by catalogues of wretchedness and strife
And ‘tis me my lonely wife

Go amble forth and larder it
In Sunday shues of caraway fig happenstance and curcumscription
Boundless in affinity by market and serene
Babel’d broth and braying he
Like serpents in a catalogue
Carded forth and bounded, sliming
Out along the grand petunia Pettigrew
Which bobbed about in springtime

Now
No
His sables yawping, his courage-vows sopping,
His baited breath and sundried ice machine roariously divined him
Now,
Like faded scented reach-linolium
Plastered up like Sunday kittens
Charged about like great salami
Vagabond and derelict in death and breathlessly no doubt
He yarpled up the mangy stairwell and clasped “o- mother!” at seventy strands of hair
Or so
Which made her scalp ring out in extacy
Goodness she cried and reaching palpab’ly
Straddled up like grate embrolios twined and trussled
And ‘tholemewed up the stairs “my god she’s got it! A simple pimple Pettigrew with iv’ry strands of hair and silken beads like bubblegum!”

[Anonymous No.6200801]

>>6200622
"one day did die" is rather clunky, isn't it?

and the stanza with "where the land passes, i cannot" is somehow too internally symmetrical, it doesn't scan well for me, the syllabic emphasis keeps punching me in an unpleasant way. same with the following stanza, "i stand and watch as you go by."

it's much more beautiful when you loosen up. i fucking love the "on predetermined principle" stanza, you have a great sense of rhythm and timing, and once you forget about form and desert the need for repetition your writing becomes articulate and gorgeous, and worth re-reading again and again

[Anonymous No.6200847]

>>6200801
"one day did die" is extremely clunky, but I almost like that about it. It feels visceral and broken.

And the rhythm is also intentionally disconcerting, although I should definitely think about adding a stanza in between, at the very least. I still haven't edited, so I'll definitely revisit that.

And thanks man, it really does mean a lot. Both the criticism and the praise, it's all really empowering and important.

[Anonymous No.6201068]

I couldn't sleep last night and ended up coming out with this, I've never written poetry before
>inb4 it shows

I hold a life in my hands
Rivers flow in the creases of my palms
And I am drowning in all the decisions I must make
I am washed ashore
and left behind like beach debris

Clenched hands and water runs
out through my fingers like sand slipping away
I grasp at your coat-tail memories
Hoping to ride my way out of this beach cove
where I am stranded, surrounded
by the litter of bad decisions
and broken promises

[Anonymous No.6201075]

>>6200622

"where I one day did die"

[Anonymous No.6201079]

>>6201068
>I've never written poetry before

never read any either, by the looks of it.

[Anonymous No.6201084]

>>6201068

Literally the first words that
Came into your head, then
Typed, while pressing "return"
To make the lines look like
A poem.

[Anonymous No.6201330]

>>6189752
>It's 6:00am and I am still awake, I've just finished smoking a cigarette. I must write a poem. I must tell the world.

Your 14 year old brain.

[Anonymous No.6201593]

>>6193230
good but cut the last line
>>6195694
this is good

[Anonymous No.6201602]

well boss i’ll let you know i’ve got a lot of opinions and
i sometimes cry things are looking not so hot for me
but keep trucking they say cheer up they say
some people have it worse they say
i never said i have it worst i say
there are children in africa
who have adapted to imitate plants
they only need water and sunlight
i say
proving i know of suffering
and i have it a good deal better
but boss they say to me that thats not true
and i ask if they have ever been to africa
and seen the plant children
or the animals that are scared to death every
morning and scared back to life every night
of course not but i read it in the papers
that these things can t exist
boss i m going to write a note to the papers
they should fire their fact checkers
and hire me

[Anonymous No.6201615]

>>6201602
on the surface level, this seems very lamezone-sque/2012 twitter but honestly? it's honest without smirking self-effacement and you can feel the pressure in your chest. not a good description, sorry, but i'm here to get better with words. good writing

[Anonymous No.6202207]

>>6200622

get rid of "one day did die," replace it with something else

consider changing the phrase "in the end of the world" to a different prepositional phrase
"looking-glass sky" is dangerously similar to the lyrics of "lucy in the sky with diamonds"

the very metrical rhyming triplet and couplet in the middle is disruptive to the flow of the piece.

"should your day be true" meaning is unclear
very awkward rhyming blue with unblue
this whole stanza is a bit clumsy

"tears rolls"
i like the deeper meaning behind the phrasing "which is for me, prepared--"
don't call yourself "deep" in your own poem plx
get rid of the last two lines, replace it with something else

B+ excellent poem

[Anonymous No.6202306]

>>6194151
>>6194093

being honest I'm pretty new to /lit/ and so far I see HQSSG as the only trip/critiquer who actually cares and reviews consistently

if you're going on about that "free verse" / "blank verse" at the top of the thread then no, I can see making that same mistake.

And no, I swear I'm not HQSSG taking off his trip to post this.

[Anonymous No.6202328]

>>6202306

He's as bad as most of /lit/ but he's not nearly as good a critic as he thinks he is. (There are actually no good critics on lit.) His idol is Bloom, and he critiques like Bloom: surface use of form, more referential than analytical. He says stuff like "use less adjectives" but doesn't argue why.

Ask him what an "objective correlative" is, and then go look up the source of the phrase if you want to see how much he actually knows about techne.

[Anonymous No.6202360]

Every night I take a train

There and back and home again

Never a 'to' or ever a 'from'

The ride is a rhythm, a deafening hum


I take my bags and strain to board

Tired, tattered, tainted, sore

Over-sized cases, a weighted chest

Shut just once and opened less


I lug this luggage, far and wide

And breathe with relief when the dark arrives

But on this train I'd meet a friend

A man none carried, as free as wind


He spoke of a ticket that just went there

No backs, no homes, no fees, no fares

But I could not hear him, the hymn of the train

A hum made of stone, a break from the rain


So he held his voice, escaping the ear

Speaking in silence, in time I would hear

The pain at the end of the train when it slows

Gone with a train that instead only goes


I accepted the ticket, farewell said the light

Good bye and good riddance, forever the night

In the distance a train, the last one to board

At its front stood the man, with a hand given forward


Its speed never slowed, his hand was for mine

A longing to leap, a clinging to time

The time had approached, the schedule had inched

I clung to my bags and was late ever since

[H.Q.S.S.G No.6202530]

>>6202328
Lol m8 I'm not a critic, I'm just a poet that's been around the block offering feedback to other would-be poets. It's up to them whether they decide to take the feedback into consideration.
I do love Bloom, yes.
Why don't you offer some critique instead of shitposting about me? Show me how it's done m8

Also, I meant blank verse when I said blank verse. I did not mean free verse.

And it's been a while since I mentioned objective correlative that one time lol.
Here, let me grab the nearest book of which includes a glossary of poetic terms.
>Objective Correlative: Phrase coined by T. S. Eliot in a 1919 essay on Hamlet to refer to the context of an emotion, the pattern of events, diction etc. leading to an emotional response. Now often used to mean the poet’s intended emotional effect. Eliot felt that Hamlet lacked an o. c.
>Now often used to mean the poet's intended emotional effect.
Connotation rather than denotation my dear.
Satisfied?

[Anonymous No.6202572]

>>6188838
Damn I like it!
--------------------------------------------------------

Plum, Pomegranate, Walnut
I lay still and I loaf; but in my stillness I still drift through time. I am by self, but never alone. The pigments of my mind swirl constantly, And with it, the embodiment of my thoughts float around my aura like glowing oracles. They carry fragments of myself in them, and as I observe, I feel the spinning force and I close my eyes: through time, time, time. I remember:

The first plum, so plain and round, eaten as a child. I remember the first bite, so sour. And the gore as the fruit began outpouring its blood and all so, so grotesque. I remember as I accepted, and as I drank its life, so sweet and fulfilling. It reminds me equally of the scorch of the summer air, pulling me out from safety into the arms of the world. But above all I remember independence. Against the world’s electricity, its rawness, I found nectar.

The first pomegranate, so bitter, so frustrating. But when I think back now I laugh at myself. How serious was I! Chewing, smashing, biting. So violent in my conquest, so shy of being direct. I remember the red gore, as its beautiful flowered shape was broken. I remember you, but do you still remember me? To hell with it! I would say, as I refused myself as I did the fruit. In the end, always left unfinished.

The first walnut. So hard, so sturdy under the pressure. But why did it resist so? For as soon as that bitter shell began to crack, from within a ray of light revealed: the ambassador of hope held, so glad to be finally found. I have been waiting he says, I remember clearly. The awareness, the wisdom! But it wasn't soon after I felt fulfilled that I desired again, and I took. And from that fountain I found drunkenness, a false peace. And in the end what was left? Just the skeletal remains.

[Anonymous No.6202645]

Life is a Chore

Truth comes from the heart its full of stops and starts
You'll know it when you see it die on the vine
Fell in a straight line

Said the road is long yet still pushed you along
A ribbon of love letters that he sends
Wrote in past tense

To know is above myself
It all starts making sense

Girl I feel the same when your singing love in vain
But now your voice is breaking up in our calls
I heard you through the wall

I knew before when I said that life's a chore
That love lies in omens, prayers and pretense
Try to remember when

The soul is a gold mine
All its worth is in trade

picosong.com/29ik/

fucked up the lyrics a bit but it demonstrates how the melody goes.

[Anonymous No.6202717]

>>6202530
Anybody who critiques is a critic. I do critique, but infrequently because I have high standards. I'm arguing with you because the new poets here will take you as the voice of god because they can't see that most of your advice is assertion and not a display of how their poems work.

We actually don't disagree on much fundamentally, but you are sloppy.


Shitty glossary you got there. In no way is the objective correlative "the...intended emotional effect." It is the means to the intended effect. The object that correlates to.

Here's the definition from my glossary, it's M.H Abrams' "Glossy of Literary Terms."

Objective Correlative. This term, which had been coined by the American painter and poet Washington Allston (1779-1843), was introduced by T. S. Eliot, rather casually, into his essay "Hamlet and His Problems" (1919); its
subsequent vogue in literary criticism, Eliot said, astonished him. "The only way of expressing emotion," Eliot wrote, "is by finding an Objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall
be the formula of that particular emotion," and which will evoke the same emotion from the reader. Eliot's formulation has been often criticized for falsifying the way a poet actually composes, since no object or situation is in itself
a "formula" for an emotion, but depends for its emotional significance and effect on the way it is rendered and used by a particular poet. The vogueof Eliot's concept of an outer correlative for inner feelings was due in part to
its accord with the reaction of the New Criticism against vagueness of description
and the direct statement of feelings in poetry—an oft-cited example was Shelley's "Indian Serenade": "I die, I faint, I fail"—and in favor of definiteness, impersonality, and descriptive concreteness.


I'll also refer you to a contemporary glossary, the Poetry Foundations' online glossary:

T.S. Eliot used this phrase to describe “a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion” that the poet feels and hopes to evoke in the reader (“Hamlet,” 1919). There must be a positive connection between the emotion the poet is trying to express and the object, image, or situation in the poem that helps to convey that emotion to the reader. Eliot thus determined that Shakespeare’s play Hamlet was an “artistic failure” because Hamlet’s intense emotions overwhelmed the author’s attempts to express them through an objective correlative. In other words, Eliot felt that Shakespeare was unable to provoke the audience to feel as Prince Hamlet did through images, actions, and characters, and instead only inadequately described his emotional state through the play’s dialogue. Eliot’s theory of the objective correlative is closely related to the Imagist movement.

Neither of these uses the term in the way your uncited glossary does.

[Anonymous No.6203315]

>>6188646
>asks for critique
>gets critique
>bitches about critique

[Anonymous No.6203348]

>>6188231
got a few but they're short (first time poster)

Poem 1:

My love undone,
You dropped your underwear
I dropped my gun.

Poem 2:
My French figurine,
The concave of your neck
So sweet and serene

Yet our clothes brewed
Tobacco, alcohol -
You were better nude.

Poem 3

The lonely romantic
Is no company at all,
And his life is banal,
Trapped in love's thrall
He sits in thought, waiting
For tragedy's death to call.

[Anonymous No.6203387]

>>6203348
Poem 1:
Feels too cliche, and is too short to escape that label.

Poem 2:
The language is a bit clunky, but the subject matter is far more interesting. I'd change (or add punctuation) to the final lines in each stanza.

Poem 3:
The punctuation and flow is off again. especially in the third line. Using "And" just feels weak, like you couldn't figure out how to transition or go further, so instead you slapped such a simple conjunction on to add more space to describe this "lonely romantic". Also "tragedy's death" is both vague and derivative.


Ideas are solid, but execution needs work.

(My poem is >>6200622 so you can decide whether or not I'm the kind of person you should take advice from.)

[Anonymous No.6203397]

>>6202645
>picosong.com/29ik/

this is song not poem anon
>>>>>/mu/

[Anonymous No.6203411]

>>6203387
thanks man i appreciate it, I'm very new to poetry and i don't really think i'm in a position to criticise your superior work! Nonetheless I enjoyed your poem. I guess I found the alliteration (day did die, predetermined principle proclaim) a little corny - but otherwise good job. Seemed very personal with plenty of depth.

[Anonymous No.6203412]

>>6203411
>>6203348
was me whoops

[Anonymous No.6203429]

>>6203348
First ones 2edgy4me

[Anonymous No.6203491]

Mekong river catfish are the largest
fresh water fish species in Asia, just like
Mexico is now the fattest country on Earth,
unless you go by geological cellulite,
in which case Russia wins. Oh, and you
can never really probe the inner-workings
of a human brain, because once you do
the organ stops working, and the storm subsides:
Cragganmore whisky in my blood, cracks in my
mind spider branch outwards into my skull––
no, wait, that's just me being cudgeled by a
captive chimpanzee with a bone (from my arm).
Anyway, Jim, let's quit chatting. It's time
to exhume this cadaver, so we can be as rich
as a king, King Tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut:
the carriage careened, and it was all a dream:

"I used to read word-up magazine..."

[Anonymous No.6203505]

I call it: "4chan-ate Encounters (/lit/erally)"

Spin around,
the stars do too.
Dilate ten-fold,
sphincters of space.
Cripple the teeth,
intravenous joy.
Itinerate majestically,
the hobos of olde.

^get a load of this guy^

>your mom did

–Brought to you by Anon, ca. 10:42 PM ET–

[Anonymous No.6203525]

Yeah, oh you gotta love it
Oh you got, oh you gotta love it
I heard what circulated, let's get to the bottom of it
I told 1da send me something and I got it covered
Somehow always rise above it
Why you think I got my head in the clouds on my last album cover?
The game is all mine and I'm mighty possessive
Lil Wayne could not have found him a better successor
Every shot you see them take at me? They all contested
Allen Iverson shoe deal, these niggas all in question
Last night I went to sleep, wanted more
Tried to decide what direction I should go towards
Some nights I wish I could go back in life
Not to change shit, just to feel a couple things twice
28 at midnight, wonder what's next for me
Longevity, wonder how long they'll check for me
Prolly forever if I stay in my zone
I speak on this generation but can't change it alone
I heard a lil lil homie talking reckless in Vibe
Quite a platform you chose, you shoulda kept it inside
Oh you tried, it's so childish calling my name on the world stage
You need to act your age and not your girl's age
It gets worse by the annual my career's like a how to manual
So I guess it's understandable man
Oh you gotta love it, you gotta love it cheer
I know rappers that call Paparazzi to come and get 'em
To show they outfits off, guess they need the attention
I remember when it used to be music that did it
But then again times have changed man, who are we kiddin'?
I'm managed by my friends that I grew up with
I'd rather give that 15% to people I fuck with
If me and Future hadn't made it with this rappin'
We prolly be out in Silicon tryna get our billions on
But here we are, yeah
Lately I feel the haters eatin' away at my confidence
They scream out my failures and whisper my accomplishments
Bitches alter my message like we have words
And stories bout my life hit the net like a bad serve
Bitter women I'm overtextin' are PMSing crazy this year
Fuckin' with my image
I've been tryna reach to you so I can save 'em this year
Fuck it I guess I gotta wait til next year
And I heard someone say something that stuck with me a lot
Bout how we need protection from those protectin' the block
Nobody lookin' out for nobody
Maybe we should try and help somebody or be somebody
Instead of bein' somebody that makes the news
So everybody can tweet about it
And then they start to RIP about it
And four weeks later nobody even speaks about it
Damn, I just had to say my piece about it
Oh you gotta love it
But they scared of the truth so back to me showin' out in public
That's a hotter subject
I've been whippin' Mercedes and nigga try to budget
I gotta make it back to Memphis to check on my cousins
Shout out to Ashley, Biama, Julia, Ericka, Southern America
Part of my heritage, pardon my arrogance, part in my hair again
That's that comeback flow, comeback flow
Once I start it's apparent
I wanted a girl whose ass is so big that's partly embarrassin'
But fuck all the blushin' and fuck your discussions
And fuck all the judgement

[Anonymous No.6203532]

>>6203525
Your content so aggressive lately, what's irkin' you?
Shit is gettin' so personal in your verses too
I wanna prove that I'm number one over all these niggas
Bein' number two is just being the first to lose
My city dictated music, nobody seein' us
Winter here already but somehow I'm heatin' up
Been observin' the game and felt like I've seen enough
Let's drop a tape on these niggas then we'll see what's up
Yea, boy you rappin' like you seen it all
You rappin' like the throne should be the three of ya'll
"Best I Ever Had" seems like a decade ago
Decadent flow and I still got a decade to go
Oh please, take at ease, where's the love and the peace
Why you rappin' like you come from the streets?
I got a backyard where money seems to come from the trees
And I'm never ever scared to get some blood on my leaves
Phantom slidin' like the shit just hit a puddle of grease
I cook the beef well done on the double with cheese
Special order for anybody that's comin' for me
Shit you probably flinch if somebody sneeze
You see they got me back like it's just 40, Oli, and me
Cuttin' all loose ends, I be the barber for free
I'm almost at four minutes going off on the beat
Feel like I'm in the Malibu that had the cloth on the seats
Man, oh you gotta love it
And on top of that it's getting harder to eat
Rappers downgrading houses
Putting cars on the lease
To think labels said they had a problem marketing me
And now it's everybody else that's getting hard to believe
Oh you gotta love it
And head to toe I'm Prada covered
I know your girl well, just not in public
Blame the city, I'm a product of it
Young nigga from the city
You gotta love it

[Anonymous No.6203548]

Can I count the days I will be from you?
Will it be a year, or will it be five?
Will it last a day; will it last our lives?
And through that time will you be ever true?
My darling, how I wish I truly knew!
-- The answers to these questions which I strive,
Without them can I very well survive?
Will these answers ever come into view?
Do not worry darling, for I won’t lie
Now, nor will I put more fear into your mind;
For with you now I shall remain
Because, my love, my love now does not wain,
My true, no new love do I wish to gain!
Without you I can only obtain pain.

[Anonymous No.6203560]

>>6203548
i obtained a lot of pain reading this

[Anonymous No.6203577]

>>6203560
thanks

[Anonymous No.6203584]

>>6200622
>>6200801
>6200801
>>6202207
How does this compare? Better or worse?

[Anonymous No.6203619]

>>6195679
late reply but very poetic.

[Anonymous No.6203679]

I am flying.
I can feel it.
Look above you!
I am flying.
Can you see me, ma?
Are you with me, pa?
My God is here
and I am flying.
I am flying.
I am gone.

[Anonymous No.6203691]

>>6203679
this builds up well, but i'm not sure how i feel about the last line. it seems a bit cliché.

[Anonymous No.6203703]

The memories I've left in the cupboard
discuss inventory of amenities with the Indian:
"shall we disregard the over-abundance of toilet paper?"
The chieftain asks.
"No, flush it with the re-used floss; flush it with the rest, too."

The Senegalese safari spirals tossed footballs,
out of control: the precipice of giddiness
where high-pitches belong to smiling teeth
and up-clenched fists meant for peace-mongering.
When will the fog dissipate so that re-tracking can occur?
Must it occur? Strategically: are we doing the right things?
No, but we're doing them right.

And there goes Disney World, and the rest, too.
Playa Del Carmen, first, fourth, eighth graduated cylinders down the pipelines to where the mole-people dream of resurfacing on the cracked-egg of Easter for one more

stanza of human interaction;
exegesis of trace-lines back to lineages lost in the cupboard,
but not actually lost.

[Anonymous No.6203722]

>>6199986
pls hate me ;(

[Anonymous No.6203779]

>>6203397

[Goddog No.6203937]

wake me up when you wake up
and gimme A cup of someth'to
mixing me up with the mornin' tha'drop
the funny sun soup over our coconut.

[Anonymous No.6204334]

>>6202645

> the song

> I - IV - V7 strumming

how the fuck is anyone going to take that seriously?

Joyce wasn't exactly a music genius but his musical accompanyment to his poem was still fitting and good. Yours just sounds like generic soundcloud upload https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPjgE29xi1k

[Anonymous No.6206064]

>>6204334
>I - IV - V7
just because you can doesn't mean its always necessary. I like songs with simple chords and strumming, to me it fits. maybe the reason why you see a progression everywhere is cause it works. like I - vi - IV - V

[Anonymous No.6206088]

at the edges
pulled by solar warp
that nuclear depression
since nothing lacks its past
yellow marble massive
bends time behind
makes meteors cloud
'round round arrangements
comet comes from kuiper
hours of light away
the heat makes her weep
rain which freezes as she bleeds
she looks like those distant frozen fragments
but is pulled inexorably to that brightness which destroys it

sign of ends
how many times did the sight
of such brightness
let secrets pass lips

>>I think the middle needs a bit of work

[Anonymous No.6206097]

>>6188256
>>the worst shit poster on any forum on 4chan

[Anonymous No.6206109]

>>6188718
I don't like the inconsistency of the rhyme. It's jarring

[Anonymous No.6206135]

>>6188231
Pretty good OP, I liked that the guns were their "most loyal sidekicks" until I realized that's not what you meant

[Anonymous No.6206141]

>>6188838
Confusing. Write this poem in metaphor instead of simile. Writing in the abstract is difficult, use the concrete to talk about what you want to discuss

>>6189106
>all those odd numbered stanzas
Physical pain.

[Anonymous No.6206190]

>>6206088
>>6206088
I think a good practice for people wh want to into poetry should make some rules for the poem they are writing, make some kind of meter, use of words that end long or short. write few sonnets or something. a little structure does wonders for your creativity.

[Anonymous No.6206204]

Infidelity

The husband came home
Discovered her and once more
Twelve years in prison.

[Anonymous No.6206231]

>>6206204

There was an old boy from Hoboken
Who came home and found his wife poking
Some feller called Ray
So he pulled out a blade
And now he's doing twelve in the chokey.

[Anonymous No.6206860]

The auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the blade connects with winter water,
–the engine fades off.
I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer,
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.

He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.

Father,
I have learned
to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; as I gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.

[Anonymous No.6207327]

The sunrise
in the fox's eyes
does not say "renewal".
It is not even red.

The rock has no mind for the journeys of rivers,
whose own waters have no
words with which to wonder
where they are flowing.

When the starred sky comes early
and the birdsongs fly south,
the tree will not think of
clocks, cycles, seasons,
or even
the mystery of its own leaves;
which are neither brown, nor orange, nor red.

And when the fox lays its head in the damp brush
it can not tell
whether it is lulled to sleep
by the flow of water,
or by the flow of traffic

[Anonymous No.6207368]

an evolute
tightening over my

center, he is
the locus

output embossing
each inch of its
inverse

coming a
part of its

wholeness


hollowed
impression

forcing in-
to myself

[Anonymous No.6207449]

Oh wanton light and dance and bend of wave and snowy crest

Under violet arctic night

Oh darling pinwheel face - let me spin you,

By the grain-sand shore and wave-crest blue

Ah, darling star in galaxy wide, let me keep you by my side

Explode with hydrogen liquid ball metal to melt into the fore…

(And the condensed heat of love was primed to blow a hole of steam

And forever expand from star to star through cold diffuse spaces and melody die and echo dampen)

The blessed heat and pant and stifle me darling!

My head nodded like a statue and I felt bronze sweat trickle down my face into a pool of crystal spring

(Squeaking wheel - there he goes!
Go, Jimmy, where your lover roves!)

Ah - the path is well shaded, don't you think? Look how the dappled light plays on the cracking leaves. Isn't it delightful? Crush my head, now.

Fall backward to Pluto into a cold damp basket

Oh Jurassic shore, oh bubble gum lake, oh halcyon calm, oh June wind, oh rafter, oh sea below me. Hello, hello, hello.

Hello, hello, hello! I'm sailing now, to a land I do not know - what strange chain of rocks?

A sea bird espied me circling overhead from west to east and cackled to his mates!

[Anonymous No.6207453]

an evolute
tightening over my

center, he is
the locus

output embossing
each inch of its
inverse

coming a
part of its

wholeness


hollowed
impression

forcing into
itself

[Anonymous No.6207835]

i don't like this too much, but uh


Whistling winds wander throughout the cracks,
the crevices,
the in-betweens, in that of a wisp.
A wisp, a wisp of locks, your hair which lies above you;
Possibly the only thing which does,
streams a beautiful black,
baring your soul,
and catching my eye.

They are gates to the great, gorgeous soul within you;
at times graceful, others golden,
but always in some way glorious,
and they bear the burden of temptation towards belief, which buries me.
If bright, white lights are to be expected at time's end,
they are to travel through your hair.


And I,
lonely,
broken,
and cold, stand in awe of the smile surrounding.

[Anonymous No.6208352]

When do you think to write poetry? Is it an urge or a decision?

[Anonymous No.6208404]

There’s a spectre in this place
and I’m too drunk to coax it from its corners
so we concede to coexist
Though
I can feel her gaze on late trips to the toilet
Where the cold hardwood brings a limp out of me and
I’m sure anyone listening would be convinced
I a cripple, crawling candidly toward the bathroom candle
burning, it burns
with a draft across cold window sills
I blow it out in a hush
And finally. Finally I’m in darkness.

[Anonymous No.6208972]

we transfer our soul
across the red fiber line
a nothing moment

[Anonymous No.6209199]

>>6208352
u just right it

[Anonymous No.6209203]

>>6208352
when do you think to
write poetry? is it an
urge or decision?

the future is poetry written by a man working in a tollbooth

[Anonymous No.6209221]

>>6209203
the future is poetry written by robot monkeys

[Anonymous No.6209379]

President of the misinformed
A noise troy burns blacker
Violators of the apprehend
The red bear makes white flies fly lower
Militancy of the undersubscribed
A black cave, pink light bulb blinds us always.
Wrote this on a DPH trip

[Anonymous No.6209396]

>>6209379
hopefully on your next dph trip, you wont be able to find a tool to write with

[Anonymous No.6209400]

>>6209396
>keyboards
>writing tool

[Anonymous No.6209413]

>>6209379
you trip, finish and then write anon.

[Anonymous No.6209448]

>>6209379
>implying dph isn't shit-tier trip
>implying this poem isn't shit-tier

[Anonymous No.6209456]

>>6209448
Did not imply either of those.

[Anonymous No.6209459]

>>6209456
Jesus, have some confidence in your work, man.

[Anonymous No.6209463]

>>6209448
>"implying"
>"shit tier"
can you guys not express yourselves outside of 4chan mannerisms? just say "this is bad", or something more descript if you can manage.

[Anonymous No.6209535]

Everywhere I look, normies I see
Normies to the left and to the right of me
They don't know my feels, I just want a girlfriend
But I mustn't break, I mustn't bend
Just love of some kind, a hand to hold
"Just be yourself," I am constantly told
Most are disgusted by what they view
So I put back on the mask, big guy for you
I say I'll make changes starting tomorrow
But changes never come, not even in sorrow
Days pass me by like bitter cold
The years go round, I grow old
People are settling, they all have a wife
But I have not begun my life
It's too much, I cannot do it
One chance at happiness, and I blew it
Nothing in life, no legacy
Generations of fathers, and it ends with me
I am nothing but an empty shell
I can already here the funeral knell
Empty chairs, empty casket
People will walk just right past it
I'll order that helium tank one day
One day never comes, I learned the hard way
I have no other outlet but rage
Fuck you, fuck this thread, sage
So while I wait for my doom
I post on a board for little girl cartoons
I join in this culture of hate
Against those people who did not wait
It's all I have left in this sad life of mine
They still don't understand, they just think I whine
What I wanted in life will never be
Nothing left to do but just go RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

[Anonymous No.6209543]

>>6209463
>complaining about memes on 4chan

[Anonymous No.6209598]

>>6209535
tf

[Anonymous No.6210077]

>>6209535
Iktfb
Not sure if this is ironic but it's actually pretty good

[Anonymous No.6210236]

>>6208404
One of the few good poems ITT. Nice idea, well executed

[Anonymous No.6210257]

The man sat on a log,
Looking up, looking down.
I approached him and asked
What he was doing.
His eyes wandered to mine
Before he rose silently
And left.
I sat down on the log
Looked up and then down.
Becoming restless, I scanned
All around the forest:
Oak, beech, pines, segregated.
It all seemed pointless,
And then I left.

What is poetry

[Anonymous No.6211046]

>>6209543
neither of those are memes really, just degenerative ways of saying something else.

[Anonymous No.6211160]

>>6210257
I enjoyed this.

[Anonymous No.6211332]

I D I E
D
I
E
D E A D
D E A T H
D
D
D
D
.
.
.
...
....
life

[Anonymous No.6211337]

ch-ayn-juh
ch-ayn-juh
chaynjuhchaynjuhchaynjuhchaynjuhchaynjuhchaynjuh

[Anonymous No.6211414]

On pale and cold mornings
When the sun is equidistant
Between myself and its master

I'll pick up a book
On dusty incantations
Concerning ascension to the sun

Sometimes I find in the pages
As one would in a well-used couch
Small amounts of money

I feel graced, and I put it
In a fish bowl on my doormat
With all my other savings

I place my favorite book on top
Of the fish bowl, so the paper
Cannot swim away in the wind

My fishbowl is black, so
I must have faith that the money
Is still there when I replace the book.

I never spend my money
I try to count it in my head
And wait for the sun to come out.

[Anonymous No.6211427]

>>6190632
hggnn muh autism

it should be "feele" because it's vocative

[Anonymous No.6212983]

I came in through the doors in haste.
"Where does she lay?", I say.
No time to waste, he points the way.
The man in the corridor shows me the location of her room.
My lady on her bed entombed.
Nothing but an empty womb.

'Loss' - Timothy Buckley

[Anonymous No.6213008]

>>6195679
I like how the ending sound of the third line of the previous stanza becomes the rhyming sound of the next stanza.

[Anonymous No.6213044]

Broken noses and broken bones
Were nothing too hard to bear alone
Would I were senseless as a stone
My plaints would be those bones
But a broken heart is what I bear
A sickened gut, oh life unfair!
Adolescent cry, an adult guy
How absurd I seem, I deem
Myself a fool, with dysfunctional tools
To build a life again.

[Anonymous No.6213154]

>>6213044
That's really good, it reminds me of a classic poem, the only weak line is the seventh, but in context it works.

[Anonymous No.6213238]

I have to write 5 pages of poetry to get approved for a class next semester. Was thinking of starting with this.

A lonely voice drifts through the static air
It hovers, falls, till students ears are found
A scribbling pen teams up with creaking chairs
To softly form the lone competing sound
Content to wait until their time to speak
The students strain to snag each syllable
A dozen years they practice this technique
Until they can succeed within a school
But what about the years that lie ahead?
The focus shifts form ears to mouth and tongue
And all the lectures heard and textbooks read
Mean little in the world to which they’re flung
For all the silent virtues that were taught
A voice that is not heard is soon forgot

[Anonymous No.6213341]

>>6212983
fucking kek

[Anonymous No.6213363]

>>6193230
>>6201593
agreed

last line is garbage-tier cliche

>>6206135
that would have been fun

[Anonymous No.6213418]

Despair, despair, O head of beast,
Fret not, for growth once more at least
Is able to reform thy case
Reform unknown though is your place
So carry on through Hades' steed
And with the Gods thy need not plead
And whether through a wint'ry hell
Or through the boughs of dead who tell
That life is ne'er once more to want
Remember 'spite the leaves of gaunt
And 'spite the pillars of dead ice
Of those reborn not once, not twice
That God is not upon Olympus
Nor Life is that which dwells in sky
But God is that which dwells within us
And Life is but what stole thine eye

[Anonymous No.6213434]

>>6213418
Better than a lot of the poetry I see posted here, a little rhythmically unbalanced though.