Poetry thread. any form, any level, just post what you’ve written and discuss it

Start by writing poetry,
Not living by the poet's tune.

Organised, filed, made unaware,
With a news flash, endless scares,
Shaking deeply west of Delaware,
Pigeon hole to an angle crown,

So I came to warn you today,
Saw you digging holes to an early grave,
She's cheap blood soaked suede,
She's your lipstick and mascara spittoon.

sitting on a bench in a public park half past midnight
small plume of smoke pouring from my cigarette
shimmers on the smooth surface of a manmade lake

beside it the star sits placid and alone
without brother or bride, but half-clothed by
dark-colored clouds climbing along the face of the deep

i say to myself: "one star, only one,
wish it were i could say that it's only the sun,
good god, good god, what have we done"

no one responds so i repeat and ask for a sign
now i hover and shimmer and swim, and
darkness is over the face of the deep.

I feel like the concept of horror poetry just sort of died after edgar allen poe. fuck romance and fuck jannies
Beast:

When the lights turn on
i will know
you are home
When the lights turn
off
i will enter

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I actually really liked this, simple but effective.
What do you read? Or are you like a musician or something?

Here's my response
Phantom:

I'm just a voice in your head
I'm just the shadow in your path
I'm the pupper to your string
Because you are nothing.

>pupper
puppet*

kill me.

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My main inspirations are Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Kenneth Patchen, Bukowski
I use an English rendition of an old Eddic meter, requires a kind of pseudo-alliteration where a letter (rather than syllable) is repeated in most lines
I prefer to keep capitalization and punctuation to a minimum, keeps the feeling more ambiguous

title; immolating desire

solace sought beneath a pine,
gazing to the roots divine
tarot hands never penchant,
lusting answers, shrouded vengeance

melting synapse midst solstice
season, meditation drenches
treason

within the veins, a reckless
verve; which twin-god
shall this road serve.

dilated pupils a fairy-tale, kingdom
consumes the seething frail. locust
weeping cornea, loathing pity the
peasants poison.

released from slumber, transcendent
drowning; the sweet scent of hypnosis ?

flailing youth. dissipating ignorance
prevails past-tense truths blood-bathed
dreamt fruition, beast
indulged myopic vision. prodigious mind now
numb and feeble. revelation;

samsaras fee is
death not ego

solace sought beneath a pine,
gazing to the roots divine
the bitter truth is oft unkind

What got me was the simpleness of the language, yet how it seemed elegant and vivid. You described things in one entire stanza than do what I do and spew it out in a line. I need to rethink the way I do that.

(this is the exact same as the one I posted in the other thread)

Reflections of an Imaginary Gallery

By keeping in mind
The message implied
By the mule’s head
Lowing through this field,
An intransitory question,
Of parsnips, pinks,
And hyacinths,

And how the shoulders’
Slump recalls
An absent chasm at
Its passenger’s back,

We anticipate
The straw man’s claims
Of the dangers inherent
In awe.

She is no monk of the beach,
Content to etch an active atmosphere,
His back against the crowd—
She’s heading down the mountain
Crowned with daffodils.

The child
Obscured by bundles
Is enough.

The cloying implication in
The uniform lilt of lilies
Puts a lid on expectation.

The city sits above
Its flickering image,
Some spots left bare
For textural affect.

Suppose the foliage knows
What it owes to pastel skies.

The cockatoo on the veranda
Only speaks Latin and Attic Greek,
And yet is conversational
With all things caught within
The immutable moment
Of our common art.

A crane mocks the audacity of dance
While it chants its mournful tune,
And one can’t help but begin
With a limited vision, all things rendered
Trompe l’oeil—

The clouds an impassible mass,
A skiff on the lip.

Mangellans watch the heaven's hints,
And find themselves in endless blues.
But modern man has lost his stars,
The lights he makes do block his views.

His modern sky has color new:
A sickly gray with patches red,
Its crystal specks have fallen down,
And lie around forsaken head.

Man's crystal crown reflects his light,
Destroying God's Divine insight,
And leaving him defenced with lies,
He bows before the devil's might.

In knowledge name his soul he sold,
For man is trapped by pride of old.

>In knowledge name his soul he sold,
>For man is trapped by pride of old.

didnt like some parts, ill admit (red/head etc.) but I really, really loved the ending. nice.

loling pretty hard dude. unintentional comedy poetry

Give the rustle and tustle,
More fervour, more vigor, more muscle,
Hush my alter boy and blind him,
Lead him to the pressure chamber,

Hold his hand, whisper lewd thoughts to mind,
Constantly break his time,
Cross his little white line,
Make him my clipped canary in my gold mine,

I slither from the meadow and hide,
Away from the demon eagle eye,
And should he find my cute toy to eat,
It's just the crazed man's word on the street

====

I hope people in this thread get this poem.

All I can think about now is a poor doggo tied to something.

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it was pretty explicit in meaning imo but then again I am a
>poet

took your advice
instead of
asking
my questions i'm
sleeping
with them.

answers ended up
being what i
expected
but never
expected
a rash like this one.

It's the frustration of conspiracy and how people ignore it.

Cocaine for my breakfast (what?)
Hold that pistol, ambidextrous, uh (yuh, yuh)
Pussy boy talk reckless (ayy)
He might end up on a stretcher, uh (yuh, bitch)
Fuck with my set (ayy)
You get wet, like a pussy, yuh (yuh, yuh)
Sauce, what I spilled (yuh, yuh)
On my kilt, she need milk, okay like... (ayy, ayy)
XXX on a Killstreak, huh (bitch)
You pussy niggas, Rice Krispie, uh (what?)
Fuck a white bitch on a 6 speed (yuh)
6 stars like GTA, kill me, uh (fuck)
It's more money I'm getting (ayy)
If a nigga tryna take, wig splitting 'em (ayy)
Shouts out to my Zoe, they killed my VRO (yuh, yuh)
So, bitch, off rip now, I'm like... (ayy)
Mama raised a soldier (huh, yuh)
Not no bitch, not no bitch, yuh (yuh, what?)
Mama raised a soldier (huh, yuh)
Not no bitch, not no bitch, uh (yuh, ayy)
Mama raised a soldier (yuh, yuh)
Not no bitch, not no bitch, uh (yuh, ayy)
Mama raised a soldier (yuh, what?)
Not no bitch, not no bitch, yuh (huh)
Mama raised a soldier (huh, yuh)
Not no bitch, not no bitch, ayy (yuh, okay, you alright?)
R.I.P. my Zoe, ayy (yuh, uh)
R.I.P. my Zoe, okay (uh, yuh)
R.I.P. my Zoe, ayy (huh, yuh)
R.I.P. my Zoe, okay (hey, al-alright?)
R.I.P. my Zoe, yuh (yuh, yuh)
R.I.P. my Zoe, okay (yuh, yuh)
R.I.P my soul (ayy, my who?)
Yuh (rest in peace, my soul, man)
Ayy (yuh, man)
TY, bitch
I got my Andy Capp's on this bitch
I'm 'bout to sip this motherfuckin' water
That's not even water
I stole that boy's shit (where the fuck is a)
Ayy
Came from the dirt, you can't hit my purp
Said my diamonds wetter than some sweat, absurd
Gold up on my wrist's lookin' sunny, Big Bird
Hit 'em with the, hit 'em with the numbers like a nerd
Ayy, let's slide sixth wall, I'm tied
Call my pockets knotty 'cause they sloppy, oh, my
I could be Xzibit, might pimp my ride
Wet pleasure rather pay the Rafs, like Christ
Hit my bitch like Bruno, uh
Get a bitch wet, no Juno, uh
Put it in her mouth like Uno, uh
Chest, all Polo like "Kudos!", ayy
Dog-ass nigga like Cujo, uh
Face card bad who you know, ayy
She all wet like fructose, ayy
Diamonds on like they cheat codes, ayy

Cocaine for my breakfast (what?)

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Fucking hell, just looking up Tricky's "Hell is round the corner" I'm amazed by how unimaginative modern hip hop is:

I stand firm for our soil (a source)
Lick a rock on foil (nigga I'll come forth)
Say reduce me, seduce me, (They juice me, seduce me)
Dress me up in Stussy
Hell is round the corner where I shelter
Ism's and schisms, we're living helter skelter (been livin' on a study)
If you believe and (or) deceive common sense says shouldn't receive

Let me take you down the corridors of my life
And when you walk, do you walk to your preference?
No need to answer till I take further evidence
I seem to need a reference to get residence
A reference to your preference to say
I'm a good neighbor, I trudge, (shrug)
So judge me for labor
Live version of the song. The bond on me ensures (lobotomy) my good behavior
The constant struggle (strum) ensures my insanity
Passing the ignorance ensures the struggle for my family
We're hungry beware of our appetite
Distant drums bring the news of a kill tonight
The kill which I share with my passengers
We take our fill, take our fill, take our fill
====

I blame lil B and murrican "hip hop"

Roast:

Dead fish and burnt roast beef,
Chest socks and beggar teeth,
Fresh meat is her problem,
Seething from her soul rotting,

Gave it away, all in, black flush,
Broke gambler at the table,
If her smell don't drive the diners away,
Her moldy entree will;

Just wrote this, a finalisation of my thoughts from a late night walk:

"Paradiso is a void of light,
where even singing six-winged seraphim,
ignite less divine siblings while in hymn.
Stygian Inferno is just as bright,
for within lies a lake that burns alight.
Smoke and sulfur clean both sinner and sin;
Consuming fires destroy shadows therein.
Christians may find this fills their appetite,

But where is the Promised Land for all those,
who hate the revelations of the light?
Is their respite for children who oppose,
anything but cold embraces of night?
In Christian death man will find no repose:
where he must exist, he must be in plight."

trash, devoid of aesthetic or emotional purpose

do you know literally zero things about actual Christian theology?

knowledge of theology is not required to talk about theology. it is an imaginary field, existing only in the discourse of its practitioners, just as astrology

Contracted away your life,
Contracted away your soul,
All I wanted was some sauce,
Cause it's a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll.

If I wrote something about astrology, it would be painfully apparent to anyone who knows what they're talking about that they don't. If you're going to write about something, it helps to be familiar with it.

Don't make up lies to win an argument. All astrology is interchangeable. All horoscopes are interchangeable. All talk of God is equally nebulous and interchangeable

There's literature on these subjects, regardless of whether or not they're valid fields of study. If you write about a field you're not familiar with, the people who know it will know you don't know what you're talking about.

I'm not writing about Christian theology, read it again

>Christians may find this fills their appetite,
>not about Christian theology
read your own thing again, my friend

god you really are dense, imagine missing the point of an entire poem this badly

what's your favourite flavour of febreeze

you're completely ignoring the point of my poem based on one deliberately oblique point, also I've studied theology in the past but again it's not relevant to the poem

>Paradiso
>seraphim
>hymn
>Inferno
>a lake that burns
>sinner
>sin
>Consuming fires
>Christians
>Promised Land
>revelations
>Christian
yeah, imagine being so retarded you think this has something to do with Christianity!

lol at this conversation

but it addresses the questions in your poem
how is that not relevant?

The fothergilla major
becomes
an acceptable
device for spring.
The poet
measures his anxiety
in the glabrous leaf,
or the conspicuous white of May.
So much is a dream
of orange yellow autumn
mountains,
so much is the inconspicuous
nerve rending of solitude
where the garden begins, or ends
--the shrub teaching
the exhilaration of retreat,
perhaps a rest,
perhaps the deciduous
invention of time.
One must carefully walk
these paths,
for the colors burn,
and the acid underfoot
commemorates
an ethereal disappearance.
Nothing speaks easily--
of possession
or of the authentic river
and that special case,
that indeterminate event
beyond the light of darkness.
So the shrub awakens
a spontaneous proof
of kinship in moist
soil, shadows and sun,
and every resolution
can only be true
or false.

Came up with this on the fly, inspired by user further above to try some horror. Sounds a bit wonky to me but i like the concept. what do you guys think?

up the stairs slowly he creeps
down the hall to ones who weep
below the bed they lie in wait
under their noses he seals their fate
behind them salivating, he leers
forward he moves, his prey did not hear

They had to let it end like that—
Squirming through new seasons.
Only a cyclops could confiscate
Those drapes. We were in line
For the new reality all night:
A couple roses on the wall,
And sizzling strips of moonlight
Tossed haphazardly
At procrastinating mouths.
Of course the usher said that;
I mean, what did you think they do?

Rub the crud around your glasses,
Tear a page or two from the future’s
Bloated playbook, where the pages
Stick together like a pack of hand-rolled
Wolves. That’s the colostomy talking.
Man, I’m sick of listening.
Treadmilling up to a starless sky
Might have to be enough.

Only, it’s hardly possible
To sketch a flower’s unbecoming
Butterflies. You had to believe it
To see it. In this animated space,
You brought a condo to the park?
I’ve always got a condo in my pocket,
Especially since this river has been
Known to gallivant with livery.
It’s life spied as by flashlight—
As I like it.

it's pretty clear you don't know what you're talking about w/r/t anything

enlighten me

I'm strangely drawn to this? Could be something. Could use some images. It's nice though

I do not classify rap as poetry because it is not concerned with the word on the page or any poetry that came before it (predating rap). Because it is a performance, there are nuances exculsive to its verbal form, and standards for the written form drop drastically. Meter, rhyme, tone, and imagery are all codependent with the music, and they do not operate as words alone. That said, these lyrics probably would bang on a good beat, so good job. I just hope you haven't deluded yourself into thinking that this kind of rap is poetic

Is this good for a first attempt?
-------------------------------------------------------
The night is too quiet
And life is too short
To do the same things you've been doing before
So when lying awake and wanting for more
Think of something you would give your life for
For in the sweet moments of dark contemplation
The smallest ideas can begin inspiration
Allow your ideas to begin their formation
And give yourself into the greatest creation
Allow your great works to be your salvation
And arise in the night as great artists do
For one day you can be seen as one too
The spark of existence can be lit once anew
For those who can see the world as askew
They do their best work in the dark

drawing on Christian imagery to make a point does not mean the poem is about theology or draws upon it in anyway beyond aesthetics

I wanna join this conversation and point out how much of an oaf you are but I am genuinely baffled by how retarded you are

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to make a vapid, ill-informed "point"
Talking about angels and sinners and all that shit? That's theology. You might as well say Dante's Comedy isn't theological.

Some good OC from past threads

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I'm not trying to defend rap or claim that it is good poetry, but you do realise that poetry was primarily an oral tradition, right?

I had an aunt
She was a bitch
And when she died
She made me rich

You lovely aunt
I wish I had
A thousand more
That all were dead

the purpose of the poem is not about angels, sinners etc, this could not be more obvious, good lord

If you're not talking about and sinners, don't talk about angels and sinners. Every element of a work should work harmoniously with the rest. If theology isn't a legitimate concern of your work, don't use its language. Otherwise its just dressing, when it could/should be adding legitimate depth to the piece.

Dante wrote like 5 layers of meaning into the Comedy. That makes it a much richer, thus better, work than this poem. The writer uses languages suggestive of a layer of meaning that isn't there, rendering it vacuous on that level. It would be a stronger work if it functioned on a theological level as well as doing what it already does.

I was an old man last night, looking back on my youth.
And I felt, with great intensity, the shortness of life.
It really is true, what the old people say: life goes by like a flash.

In the winter sky, the sun moves slowly.
Hot legs, but cold feet. Quite a predicament.
Maybe I should buy a hottie, after all.
But where does one go, on a sunday afternoon?

In the video, a soldier steps on a landmine.
His face is severely damaged, the lower jaw split in half.
His friends try to help, but he is fighting them back, half-conscious.

Like a paper between two fingers, I feel my life slip.
The books I wanted to write, where have they gone?
Where is that remarkable place, where everything ends?

He barely survived, the soldier: a one-legged man searching for his teeth.

I tumble down the brook, tail a-beating
Across the woods, I find my course homeward
Running down the shining stream, to meet
The fisherman’s hook. The bite leads upward
Through the water. “What hook have you bitten now?”
The fisherman pries, and between his fingers the sun shines
On my many marks of victory. “Look at my marks, fisher.
I have conquered your hooks and reaped many rewards.”
With a snide remark, he lets me fall,
My latest victory stands beside the rest.

Kicking a ball around, what great fun this is!
Up and down the street and into the air.
People in the village think I have finally gone insane.
But they are gravely mistaken!

Little children come and laugh at me, pointing their fingers.
Women and men smirk and shake their heads.
Even my old mother tells me to stop.
She cried when she told me, I could hardly believe it!

That old hag! What does she know, really?
Who cries because of some ball-kicking?
You people are insane, not me.
I am minding my own business.
Take an example, would you?

Far and wide their golden helmets sang
Spurs in rythm rang
Shadows flashed between the trees
And hooves flew over leaves
Far and wide their golden helmets sang

I know, but it's not anymore, and it hasn't been for a really long time. Poetry really needs to be good in content, form, and sound.

My hands act like the verb λαμβάνω—a nasal infix
in the present stem. In the present, my hands are
indeed fixed within my nose. In the past, they
weren’t, reminiscent of the aorist stem of the verb,
λάβον, with no nasal infix.

I would love my hands to be more like the verb
βάλλω, which clearly has no nasal infix. It used to,
but the nasal infix was taken over by the liquid
consonant λ, thus what was βάλνω became βάλλω.

Of course, λαμβάνω doesn’t have a liquid with
which to remove its nasal infix.

So perhaps I’m stuck with it.
It sure is annoying.

Total poetry pleb here. I really liked parts of Pale Fire (the poem) and wanted some recs on poets that have a similar prosaic and flowing style. Pope gets mentioned a lot in that book, should I read him?

This is really good, it made me chuckle. It's very succinct and metrically clean. Usually poets in these threads take themselves way too seriously and completely dehumanize their writing, so good job for having some fun.

It's alright. Not a bad effort for just starting. For a traditional poem, the meter and rhyme is a little clunky. It's usually frowned upon to use a bunch of "-tion" words because they're super easy and bland. However, I think my best advice for you is to read more poetry, and more contemporary poetry especially, and try to see how rhyme and meter can be used in more interesting ways. I advise you to think about exactly what you want to say and the images you want to evoke. Be very precise and deliberate with these things and eventually the language will follow (given a wide enough vocabulary and a deep enough familiarity with other poetry).

This post is brought to you by cognitive dissonance

down it falls, into the heavy stream
its new life has begun
what will it see, what will it do?
swerving with the river
it makes its way to the plains
in rain or shine, its journey continues
caught on the tail of the fish
how fast! how quickly it changes pace
so fast it has caught the attention of the birds
caught in the fight for life, its swept by the wind
leaving all that it has known
down it falls into the heavy stream
what will it see? what will it do?

get rid of abstractions, completely, until you can just paint a scene worth reading, then come back to them, wary

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Searching through my mind
I find I’ve wasted too much time
Today is the final daydream
Tomorrow is a gift not to be wasted

my fat cock started to itch
so I asked a fat bitch
to scratch it

>prosaic
Eliot

before i rec you anything, imma make sure we're on the same definition of prosaic

i got recs for u regardless tho

Attached: prosaic.jpg (1237x717, 138K)

user, Eliot was explicitly opposed to poetic language. That definition of prosaic is totally apt.

>Eliot was explicitly opposed to poetic language

yeah i would disagree pretty strongly that Eliot's language is commonplace or 'lacking poetic beauty'

that said, he definitely fits into 'flowing'

>having the style or diction of prose
>commonplace
>unromantic
Is very much what I mean (not so much "lacking poetic beauty"). Pale Fire feels a lot like listening to someone talking or thinking, but still fitting into poetic form. I don't really know how to explain it, since I'm a total pleb, like I said.

Dude, he wrote about how poetic language had been drained of value and that poets should focus on creating beauty through content rather than form, you fucking idiot. This idea is central to his poetics.

lmao, just because you think his interviews are more valid that his clearly beautiful sonic qualities doesnt make me an idiot. it sounds more like you'd rather read about his poetry than read it

my first thought is William Carlos Williams, but one of my fav poets rn is Frank Stanford, so tell me how you like this poem and i'll go from there (the poem is p short)

poetryfoundation.org/poems/50147/circle-of-lorca

This is very close to what I'm looking for, thanks. Would love to hear some similar suggestions.

Cool! Stanford has some great work, but often gets ignored for being clearly rural and poor.

If you want more stuff like this, reading closer to contemporary works might be a better jumping in point.

Here's a baffingly well structured poem that is super prosaic
poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/148962/study-of-two-figures-pasipha-sado

Vienna Waltz

Gallant galas, petulant pageants
Enough to rouse my weary spirit to imagine
What this night, to me, will bring
If the music shall cause my soul to sing
A song, perchance, of a fateful glance
From that dark-eyed beauty - may we dance?
Yes, she says, but on this one condition:
The band plays the Waltz in another rendition
To them I hurry, with a mission in mind
Please, dear musicians, if you will be so kind
That marvelous woman just across the room
The one whose eyes, on your soul, loom
She wishes to make a simple request:
With your playing she is none too impressed
I humbly ask you to play in a different key
Such a feat will send my heart into glee
Or better still: to play another version
I hope my request has caused your conversion
For if you continue to play as before
That dark-eyed beauty will command the floor
Not with myself, alas, but with another
Such a sight will make me curse my own mother
Thank you for your time, and I wish you luck
Of that you have need to adequately pluck!
I rejoined my beauty a few moments later,
I, bearing news, to appease and abate her
What joy I then saw, on her face it was shown
It was then she became my partner alone
ONE..two...three...ONE...two...three
Whirling, twirling rhythms with notes dancing free
The band wielded music like a field-commander
In keeping with the beat I tried to understand her
My partner, of course, was still an enigma
I suppose my own being was, for her, a stigma
Not once did she look in my general direction
Perhaps I was mistaken about our connection
There came a point when the music quickened
The beat grew faster, and my blood quite thickened
My veins about to burst, and my lungs quite strained
My partner, however - how calm she remained
As if she took no notice of the increasing pace
Like a lifeless corpse floating in vast, open space
Her eyes, I tried to meet, when finally I did!
Chance brought us closer, into my arms she slid
I prepared to gaze in her eyes melancholy
How I felt like a youth entrenched in mad folly!
But what horror, what shock and what dread:
My dear dancing partner was undoubtedly dead
I let out a scream, a cry for assistance
Her empty body gave no resistance
Down she dropped, hitting the floor with a thud
She was a vessel sapped of all blood
No one looked my way, nor gave me aid
Me, it appeared, they wished to evade
I ran to the band, hoping again for their support
Only this time they denied my report
I'm sorry sir, I truly am appalled
Your partner was, by our music, enthralled
You asked to play it different, that much we did
The old, tried and true; that you forbid
A bit of advice, my friend, for your next dance
If ever a woman, like her, gives you a glance
Do not attempt to win her favor
A woman's charm is fit to savor
Never what we may joyously play
Our music she wanted in a different way
Now you see what Fate has clearly said:
Whoever denies the music will wind up dead.

Through the trees
I could hear the streaming noise
Of trains in the distance
Beating the earth and hardened mud
Kicking dust into the sky

And so below
The skeletal remains
Of a small girl
Identity unknown
Age at death unknown
Cause of death unknown

The passengers are not aware
As they rush over her
That they are being transported
Towards their own ends
She lies quietly beneath
A brief brush with life will not disturb
Her undream

unironically best poem in thread

MORE PLEASE. Love your taste. Frank Stanford rocks (I'm from Ark. and love his poetry)

here's maybe my favorite poem right now. its by David Bottoms so maybe someone who's read Stanford has read him.

Attached: bottoms.jpg (447x600, 25K)

Between the stone towers,
he walks where along where
semen stains the black path.
Navy coat, worn and washed,
a splotch of ink against
the sky. Low and opaque
with brush strokes all grey –
a stroll painted by Monet.

--
Should I change "semen" to "salt"?

My biggest fear like many poets
Is that my art is indistinguishable
From that of an angsty fifteen year old

So I am stating for all records
That I am not a angsty fifteen year old
I am an angsty twenty seven year old

I have voyaged more times around the Sun
Than any fifteen year old on this planet

I could also get a driver’s license and I shall
Once I find an instructor drunk enough to pass me

I’m vomiting
into a
toilet

It’s odd
you don’t usually see
a toilet up
close
like
this,

but now
I can see all
the pubes
and dried up piss

I hope that
isn’t a cum
stain.

nobody ever finds a way out
the mystics float but
eventually
they drown like
the rest of us
we just thrash around
a bit more

if I wanted meditation
I would meditate
if I wanted peace of mind
I would kill myself
but tonight
I’m content to sit here
with my discontentedness

misery doesn’t love anything
that’s why tonight
I feel so free

I met a poet
on the train

The train was running along
the ocean and
the moon was shining over
the water

He was scribbling
in his notebook but
he looked up
at the view and
after about a minute
he turned to me

He said,
“It’s not beautiful,
you know.”

I nodded my head
like I knew
what he was talking about
but I didn’t
it’s only now
that I understand

not a day goes by
that I don’t think about
that poet
and how much I hate his guts.

I chuckeled and cackled.

I once saw a man for what he really was:
A little kid stuck in a Gundam Suit,
Cutting his pinky off with a sickle.
(His finger and face were exposed, thats how I knew.)

My, my! what a strange fellow!
A Yakuza man, smartly dressed,
Killer eyes and scary demeonor.
He could have killed me then and there!

But all it took for him to cry like a baby,
Were the laser sounds I made with my lips.

I was penetrated by a zombie. I released a turd on the decaying cock. This let loose a punishment I had never imagined

Poems are for Writing

Poems are for writing not reading
It's the corpse of a horse that needs beating
Every narcissist knows
And puts his thoughts in prose
If he wants you to see his heart's bleeding

good poems

>disregarding what a writer says about their own work
Yes, you are a fucking idiot.

>disregarding what a writer says about their own work
>not disregarding what a writer says about their own work

I shiggy diggy.

Why? You can't stand being wrong about it?

>funnily enough
>"i have no complaints" after "trapped inside a house/it's a claustrophobic place to live in"
Learn the language better, lay off the irony and pseud misdirection. Be honest instead of lying to people, and your message will resonate. People who write poetry for themselves are not poets.

The shit at the tip of my anus
Trapped, clinging
YES
YES
It fell down

dank meme, tigerposter

If you are against poetic language in your words, but for poetic language in your deeds: what carries more weight?

Every so often I read through a document in which I keep all my poems, starting at the top. They're mostly organized chronologically. I love going back and reading shit I wrote years ago. This one was written when I was 17. Not bad for a dumbass kid. Can't wait to see how much I hate my current work when I'm, say, 40, and have thousands and thousands of poems lacking self-awareness that will become blatantly obvious to me the more I read and the older I become.

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it's not subtle enough so it comes off as pretentious because you're trying too hard to draw a metaphor. good metaphor is subtle because it happens naturally, if you look for a metaphor it's unlikely to be good just yet. don't look for a reason to write, write because you need to. if you want to be involved with poetry, read great poets to scratch the itch. it'll make you a better poet when it comes time to really write.

seems too personal for me to give a shit. who are you and why do I care about whatever introspection you could possibly have? consider the audience when writing a poem. it's not that readers CAN'T think about a poem, it's more of a question of do I even want to spend my time deciphering it? the answer is no in this case. the language itself is rather uninteresting. there's nothing about it that is unique or exciting to me as a person that has read poetry from people like shakespeare. and you might think it's unfair of me to compare you, user, to one of the greatest writers of all time, but if you're not aspiring to be that then why the fuck do I care about YOUR poetry when I can go read his?
not being harsh, I'm giving you things to think about for next time. what about your poem would make anyone but you stop and want to think about it? I don't see any interesting wordplay, or meter, or form, or anything really. the whole point of it is your introspective metaphor, but nothing makes me want to decipher whatever that is. my advice for these threads is always to read more poetry. if you don't read poetry, and unless you're a genius, you won't have any clue as to what good poetry is. at least, not a valid clue. everyone has a clue as to what poetry is, but not everyone has a validated clue.

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There is undeniably a predominantly prosaic quality in Eliot's work, you pretentious fuckwit. You don't even give enough of a shit to have read his essays, and yet you're claiming to understand him better than somehow who has. Learn your shit and talk with your mouth instead of your ass next time, okay?

To dismiss Eliot's resistance to poetic language is to deliberately throw away a cetral element of what he was trying to do, in which case why the fuck are you reading Eliot? Don't fucking bother with his shit if you don't care enough to try to understand him.

A girl was born a thousand times
In Texas and Bejing:
As men and women, cats and boys,
As beggars and as king.

An old man sighs and pets his dog
His blind eyes full of tears:
I wish I had a thousand more - - -
Or atleast a few more years.

oof, calling shit like Prufrock, The Wasteland, or The Four Quartets (y'know his legacy) unpoetic is silly and you should stop leaning on a poet's claims instead of a poet's poems

To clarify: I dont think you are wrong; neither do I think that the other user is wrong.
You can read Eliot in more than one way. A poem is a thing after all. You can put it under a green light, blue light, every kind of light. Upside down, whatever. That is reality. It is perfectly acceptable to say "Eliot's language is poetic". It is just as acceptable to say "Eliot's language might seem poetic at first, but if you dig deeper...". So, in short: you and the other user were talking about two different things, two different poems: your version and his version of Eliot.

>let's understand poetic history by totally ignoring primary sources!
>I am very smart!

I'm trying to get to Eliot's Eliot. Why read an author if you're not trying to understand them?

Yeah right - like you wood no. Eliot would pile-drive your twink ass into the River Thames until five o'cock in the morningwood, going 'round the prickly pear with Cousin Marie under this red rock by the tumid river, leaning together - headpiece filled with a broken jaw or some other nonsense measuring out your life with big baboons coming and going in the Caravaggio room and such yeah you take a handful of that sawdust in cheap hotels with yellow fog-tinted windows and I'm sure you'll be fine

>let's understand poetic history by totally ignoring primary sources!
No one said that. All that's being said is: Eliot wrote poetic poems. (Poems that have a certain poetic color, sound, ductus.)

the primary source is the poem u dummy

>you should stop leaning on a poet's claims instead of a poet's poems
>If you are against poetic language in your words, but for poetic language in your deeds: what carries more weight?
>>not disregarding what a writer says about their own work
>no one said that
Yes they did, dumbass.

The primary source on the intent of the poem is what the fucking poet wrote about the intent of their poetry.

1) You want to read Eliot in light of Eliot, historical perspective, primary sources.
2) Others just want to read Eliot. Siri: Read Eliot poem
Two different approaches.

she takes
these systems, each dependent upon another
each internally eternal, fractal
she takes them, she burns them up
she says
"I don't give you myself for this,
it is not the machine's altar on which I've killed lambs "
she takes
childhood, future, parents, grandparents, offspring
she takes
plans, fears, god,
the relationships built to toll bridges
an archipelago, Confucian
she takes them, incinerates again
says
"this is not
what I want
this is not
what you are"

He is roadkill, sticky on the tarmac heat
He is scalped, kneeling in the brawl
He is nerve endings made vulnerable by some clumsy surgeon, available to the friction of banality

Every second shits the diaper

(thanks in advance for feedback, I'm playing around with some new ideas and this is very prototypical, I am still looking for some kind of catharsis. That's assuming I've built any tension at all, which maybe I totally failed at lmao. Anyway let me know, I'll go through and critique now.

One way is for people who want to actually fucking understand what they're reading. The other is for vain-ass casual fucking cupcakes.

True enough

Lmao, u seriously can't read a poem without having an instruction manual written by daddy poet?

You fucked up the yes capitalization

Personally, I take issue with poetry that directly explicates the poet's feelings. I'd like to see some more imagery with the drowning metaphor, and some real, honest description of your feelings besides one-word subjects like "misery". How does it feel to be miserable for you? What are the specifics of feeling free in your misery? What is profound about that for the reader? I think your point is interesting and you clearly have a sense for line breaking and syntax, but you need to be more expressive. Show us how you are content in your discontent! I didn't feel anything when I read that part. Dig really deep and discover what is precisely the feeling you have and how it could be communicated.

This could easily just be three sentences. Chop it up and make it rely on the line breaks, and make it shorter. Stronger Imagery also works wonders for minimal pieces like this.

If they wrote such material, then yes, I would like to take a look at it. Why would I choose to be ignorant about a writer I'm reading? He gives us his reasons for writing how he did; why not consider them?

considering them != adhering to them uncritically

Why not try to see a writer as they saw themselves?

What are your criteria for rejecting what a writer says about their approach to their own work?

Some people are into poetics, others are not. Some people lean towards intellectual understanding of poetry, others lean towards intuitive understanding of poetry. Schiller was intellectual, Goethe intuitive. I am neither nor, I am a hack fraud.

>Why not try to see a writer as they saw themselves?
I am not interested in how a writer saw his own writing. I am interested in how I see his writing. And I am not interested in fusing his understanding with my understanding. That is a perfectly legitimate way of going about things, but I prefer to work differently.

>What are your criteria for rejecting what a writer says about their approach to their own work?
If he proclaims his method will result in X, but instead results Y, I put down a question mark beside it.

Some people are rational, reasonable, intelligent people, and others are not. Agreed.

>I am not interested in how a writer saw his own writing. I am interested in how I see his writing.
If your interest is in yourself, stare into the mirror. You're saying not interested in listening to the person you're listening to (by reading their work). Might as well watch clouds and comment on their shapes, while thinking you're doing something meaningful and deep. The best poetry harmonizes reason and emotion. That's 100% the only good stuff; everything else is deficient in one department or the other. Is =/= ought, so the fact that some people are a way does not justify their being that way. A babbling, melodramatic idiot could use an injection of some reason. Someone whose writing is cold could probably use some more emotion. There are different way, but some are deficient.
I mean, you're saying that you're interested in a writer but you're not interested in what they're trying to say. You render everything a mere mirror for you narcissistic sefl-examination.

Maybe you misunderstand the results of the authors method? If you don't know the context, you don't know what you're looking at, and it makes you blatantly disregard important elements of the text. You're only deluding yourself and choosing ignorance.

you need to take author's off such a pedestal and free your reading

And join your masturbation club? No thank you. Why would a want to "free" my understanding from reason? Good job of ignoring all of the substance of my post, by the way.

because you somehow seem to think the meaning of a poem is located outside of the poem itself and its stashed away in an essay. i think that's a really bad reading habit. i think depending on poets to explain their own work makes for both worse poetry and worse readers

How do any of you fucks take each other seriously? Honestly, if you even believe for a minute that some faggot on a poetry thread has something of value to say, you're not worth a goddamn thing.

no u

>trying to understand a writer is a bad reading habit

Also, you seem to think the meaning of a poem is outside of the poem itself and is stashing away in yourself. Or, people have their different readings of poems and you only care about your own because you are a narcissist.

Does someone who has something to say no longer have something of value to say simply by virtue of entering discussion on a poetry board?

These threads are designed for people to share their worthless poetry so that eventually they can make worthwhile poetry. I have received some invaluable feedback from these threads. It's also a good excersize as a reader to be able to communicate why you like or dislike a poem, and amateur poetry is a great way to get better at that. Sometimes these threads are just bitter trash, but I have seen plenty of healthy ones, and they can be very useful.

you should understand a poem THROUGH the poem. context is SECONDARY to the POETRY

Context is what gives things meaning. Poetry itself is a context.

I just wrote this for my gf:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

You only value the meaning given by the context of your mind/experiences, because you are a narcissist.

In transfiguration,
A sunflower seed addict
Performance is

the best

YOU are DUMB and I am DONE

not an argument
more like the hissy fit of a narcissist

>not an argument
Come on Stefan, we all know you don't read. You're not fooling anyone by posting on Yea Forums

What is pretentious?

This is amazing if you wrote it.

Schlob on me knob
My cock is on throb
Check in with me:
A big revolting blob
Lay in the bed
Ass on my head
I really need to ask
You to get off my leg

Empedocles died
jumping into hot lava
like my green tea fly

Freedom!
Freedom up there!
And me
A fish
Struggling against the current

Golden lakes
And crystal streams
And freedom
Up there

Weak
And wanting
Give me strength
Oh fish!
Wash me ashore

Let us meditate on rain.
They had to let it end like that—
Squirming through new seasons,
Looking for a soul to steal.
Only a cyclops would confiscate
Those drapes. You’re gonna
Make me late for the party.
We stood in line for the new
Reality all night: a couple roses
On the wall, thorn-tinted glasses,
Tossing sizzling strips of moonlight
At procrastinating mouths.

Rub the crud around the rims.
Tear a page or two out of the future’s
Bloated playbook, where the leaves all
Stick together like a pack of hand-rolled
Wolves. I starred as the dog
In A Circle of Rain. You had to believe it
To see it. That’s the colostomy talking.
Shit, I’m sick of listening.
Treadmilling up to a starless sky
Might have to be enough.

Only, it’s hardly possible
To sketch a flower’s unbecoming
Butterflies. In this animated space,
You brought a condo to the park?
I’ve always got a condo in my pocket,
Especially since the river’s been
Gallivanting with insipid livery.
That’s life, spied as by flashlight,
And I like it, but just look at me—
For all of the light in the shower stall,
I’m naked in the rain.

Old message:

Pretending-
To feel air
Unbreathable

New, concise message:

Young
Old
Universal truth

Wet
Alone
Numb
King of the perpetual pull;
Electric,
Rational system...

I got these two poems published in a lit mag and I don't know if I should feel good about that or not

newpoplit.com/portfolio/two-poems-by-audrey-rhys/

Write for ten minutes they said
It’ll be good for you they said
Don’t know if I’m any better
But I’m ten minutes past bed
Goodnight

read less beat shit

Squeeze and splash, squeeze and splash,
Poo is falling out my ass!

Today’s my birthday.

I locked my keys in the car.

Otherwise good day.

Idk is almost one, I've had a few, and i miss having inspiration..

Wind blown leaflets chatter static
ancient as the universe.

Rain falls quietly as static
ancient as the universe.

Sun slips though the clouds like static
ancient as the universe.

Mother beckons home like static
ancient as the universe.

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I like this

I understand there's a visual aspect here. I personally believe that's taking poetry to an autistic point. But content wise I like it.

Love this

This is great

I didn't know non sexual language could make me erect

Nigger

Yup I'm on Yea Forums alright

A lady paid a portrait
I paint her in my style
Pour love in every wrinkle
Alas, she thinks it vile.

I paint her smooth as marble
And lie with every stroke
Deny her single beauty...
...atleast I wont go broke.

I don't know any of the poets in this thread but the biggest problem with your art is that you're trying to sound like someone that isn't you. Your work should be relentlessly you, not your best imitation of a war poet

Dancing with a girl

Enter darkness
Leave the place that you know and
Enter darkness
Couple drinks down ya
Couple drinks down ya
Couple more
Couple more
Then you pause
Life a little hazy
The dark a little less scary
And the music just begins to resonate through your body
And for a moment you lose yourself in the drinks and the dance
And then she's there
She walks up to you
Hand on your shoulder
Scarlett, in your ear
Vodka in the air
And then slowly
Slowly
Slowly
You are dancing with a girl

Wow, user, I'm flattered. I've, uh...I've never gotten feedback quite like that before.