Let's get an OC thread going. Post your poems, short stories, WIPs, etc. Last one went really well

do more criticism. That's why nobody posts on these threads: nobody ever criticizes works, only expect criticism.

in my experience, OC threads with more, high-quality criticism perform very well and sometimes for several days. Otherwise, you get a couple people posting OC, no criticism, and the thread burns out in a matter of hours

Well I'll be really honest, the huge problem I had with both was being thrust into a gigantic scenario, both of which were scenario's not designed to try and help me suspend my disbelief but rather instead to show me what felt like how large your vocabulary was. It was all the build up of seeing your cock without the reward of actually seeing a dick, so to speak.

Furthermore I guess the piece i posted felt more like a dupe than something that really needed some deeper emotionally explanation for my love of the ciggies. everyone knows they'll kill you, don't they?

BRAP

out with the farts
with the farts out
'should I fart now'
yes, you dim little cow

a flatulent petrichor
a scent I adore
one that for many
the thought does abhor

but I am not many,
and just like the few,
we partake in the sniffing,
of our wife's scent of poo.

and yes, dear reader,
it should also be said,
that if interest is piqued,
then so you may slink
to my wife's anal brink
and breath in delight,
those odours of shite.

indubitably based

Dont use cliches if you aren't going to riff off them into something interesting. "cuts like a knife" and "pale as snow" aren't necessarily untouchable phrases, but there's an art to platitude placement that cant be overlooked in poetry. They work well amidst a clever phrase, or as an almost arbitrary punctuation to a sentence, but not as actual morsels of content like you use them here. "atop your crown, a burning glow" is what you want to do more often, abstract images, something of intrigue, but not too opaque. The last four lines are very clunky, you completely destroy the music you created earlier. The first four lines, save the "it" between "core" and "cuts" flow perfectly (get rid of the "it" to keep the rhythm). I don't know why you neglected its continuation with the ending. "Arete" feels abrupt and contrived in usage. The cigarette line is corny. Don't talk about cigarettes in poetry, please don't, you will look pretentious 95% of the time. I love that the poem wants to be sincere, but you must learn to shed the affected tone and diction. Read a lot more poetry and write often. Be mindful of rhythm, cliche usage, and try to be self-aware about pretentions if you can. Good luck. I'm btw.

not particularly my fav subject but definitely objectively better than , I even liked it more on my second reading.

yes very cool, but what are you trying to convey?

>The thought of you within my life-
Into my core it cuts like a knife.
please dude...spare us, you can do way better.

The canvas, bland and binding,
A cruel white that beckons refining,
The tracing of an angelic line,
Anticipation. as the six-eyed god
fixes both his eyes trifold on me,
I am exalted by his favor,
Once again, he opens his maw in
Anticipation.
And before I can draw
breath again,
He adverts his gaze,
And I find my chest host
to a newfound sorrow,
to a welcomed shame.

>show me what felt like how large your vocabulary was.
this is excellent criticism, thanks. Any idea on how i can improve it? maybe if i incorporated something more introductory?

this sounds pretty. I dont really understand it though. Wish i could give you something better

Cum
Cum everywhere
The walls, the floor, the ceiling
In my shoes, in my cereal, in my airconditioner
Cum

Why is everyone so concerned with being pretentious in poetry? It's kind of an innately pretentious art form

I can’t feel my chest.
Only the red-lead ball in my gut
and the fever-strained headache of an
overworked brain, retracing the last words we traded
over and over again, overanalyzing,
waiting for your name to appear on
the dark mirror I keep staring into looking for you.

Waiting on every possible word, wondering if you’ve
seen me in your thoughts, or not,
holding back my eager fingers from telling
“I love you” or “I hate you” (depending on the moment),
thinking of all the “I never’s” and “I only’s”
I could use to hurt your heart, to palm it tightly in my hand, to make you cry,
Never sending, never ending.

The hardest thoughts are of how much you still care.
If I texted you something hurtful or final,
would you protest, or say “k” and leave it at that?

Maybe that’s the truth I’m afraid of.
Maybe that’s why I’m afraid to say “let’s close this book”;
Maybe I’m afraid you’ll agree.

I'll give you some feedback, and post a more serious poem of mine in return.

Your poem was most definitely captivating, not in small part to the artfully employed syntactic and grammatical choices you made; kudos to that. Something I take slight issue with is the vaguity of the things you say. I can appreciate the imagery, but it almost feels like imagery without substance at some points (pointing specifically to the "ring of melted questions, lit into their foam line). Overall however, given the clearly grand nature of your subject matter, I can understand it working somewhat to fit the larger theme. All in all, really good work as you must surely already know.

my reply poem

>The wolfe island windmills

Steel men watch waves crash
against a distant rocky shore.
Their promised land is only so
because Gods have buried their feet.
In thanks they offer all they make
to Lords they'll never know
ungrateful Deities; to Me.

Yes, all art is pretentious and affected, but the trick is to be skillful enough to justify it. Its supposed to be affected, you don't want The Waste Land without having your head up your ass, of course. But the pretentiousness, or rather, the stylistic quality, must act as an agreeable flavor to the art rather than an obnoxious posture.

*You don't write the Waste Land i meant

Thanks man, I'm actually a pretty articulate critic. You guys were right, I wasn't really grasping that I have to give to receive.

Room for improvement really lies with scene building in either of those first two poems, not quite sure yours was. You thrust me into a scene which I can only assume you drew at least in part from memory, without imbuing into me the sentimentality of it all. You need to build that up before you can get to the long clever lines that are gonna make my heart swoon. Help me suspend my disbelief

>six-eyed god
who dis? seems like the point of your poem kinda cruxes on an obscure reference

to me, this seems like there was a dude you were in to that looked at you and you couldnt get the courage to speak to him

which is kinda gay, but it sounds cool

>Help me suspend my disbelief
I will do better and I will post the revised version

Fair enuf

I laughed out loud so congrats

>Into my core it cuts like a knife.
Feels a little clumsy, like the sentence is being bent to fit the meter. Maybe try to find a replacement?

Spooky. I like it.
>clouds'
If this were being read out loud this possessive would not convey well.

...

For ten nights I've waited,
Bow strung and quiver stocked,
I haunt the eaves, the alleys, malls,
Laced with broken glass.

My sinews ache, taut as wire,
My fingers lust to draw and loose,
And send my quarry bristling down,
To sleep upon the earth.

I sip the tepid air,
The night is hung with stars,
There's a gravity between us,
The beast and I.

the six-eyed god is the barrel of a gun staring back at you, the poem is about a man contemplating suicide im the face of
a creative drought.

kek

ah, that makes more sense

Disturbing but good. I wish the gun line had a clearer metaphor, because it works brilliantly when one knows what it is, but finding it out is difficult. Good work anyway. And thanks for the feedback on mine, its not meant to have a clear message really. The moon itself does not quite produce a clear effect on anyone, but it does something I think. I wanted to convey something regarding that.

I like the atmosphere but the diction feels forced at times. "haunt the eaves" "my quarry bristling down" feel both archaic and contrived. The overall sentiment is brooding and byronic, which is fun, but the presentation could beore refined. Actually, I just read it again and put the images altogether and enjoyed it even more. So again, the imagery is great the mood is great, but the language itself is holding it back. We need something a bit more of the times but with that same dark punch.

despite its simplicity this is a great poem, but I say that with a heavy heart cause its a step away from being genuinely memorable. "the night is hung with stars" is so over used it just screams "I've come to collect my rhyme, I wanna be done with this".

based af, teach me. What should I read? I have read almost no poetry, nor have I written.

Good starting points are

Yeats - Lake Isle of Innisfree
Byron - Stanzas for Music
William Carlos Willoams - Pot of Flowers
Ezra Pound - The Plunge
William Wordsworth - I wandered lonely as a cloud
Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass
Langston Hughes - the Negro Speaks of Rivers
Emily Dickinson - I started early, took my dog
Frank O'hara - Cambridge

This is a decent variety of accessible poetry that I think could get you situated in a host of directions.

Okay still not excellent but maybe you can help me figure out why this doesn't feel right still

Once, I found her in a far-away place, an ancient and illustrious city
where my mind lived in the minute. My eyes
toured the buildings and my feet explored the customs,
and, while watching lightning on a stage, I found her, and I was struck.

Then, you were all I wandered and all my eyes could tour.
Together we moved in moonlight and the young rays of the sun,
But you became an abstract voice, a fading
spirit beneath my wings beckoning my return with motives obscured.

Tempted by the bright darkness in the fruits of your being,
Those oceanic globes that call me ‘cross the sea
to find knowledge and experience which may weigh heavy on my shoulders;
What lies behind their depths? How am I their citizen?

I swim and search between the isles of your affection
for the fabric of maya hidden in archipelago.
I cannot see beyond your eyes.
I cannot hear beyond your lips.

Spare me this vexation; cut loose the sinews
of my heart which snare me to your heels,
unless you plan to feed this feral sea-bird.

for some more modern poetry, the Early Purges is a great one

Here's the updated version. Something still feels wrong, maybe you can help me figure out what it is (admittedly, i've posted and deleted this 3 times with new edits):

Once, I found her in a far-away place, an ancient and illustrious city
where my mind lived in the minute. My eyes
toured the buildings and my feet explored the customs,
and, while watching lightning on a stage, I found her, and I was struck.

Then, you were all I wandered and all my eyes could tour.
Together we wandered in moonlight and the young rays of the sun,
glow reflecting in your eyes, but you became an abstract voice, a fading
spirit beneath my wings, beckoning my return with obscured motives.

Tempted by the bright darkness in the fruits of your being,
Those oceanic globes that call me ‘cross the sea
to find knowledge and experience which may weigh heavy on my shoulders;
What lies behind their depths? How am I their citizen?

I swim and search between the isles of your affection
for the fabric of maya hidden in archipelago.
I cannot see beyond your eyes.
I cannot hear beyond your lips.

Spare me this vexation; cut loose the sinews
of my heart which snare me to your heels,
unless you plan to feed this feral sea-bird.

This is actually a novel I just finished and I am looking for feedback on the opening. Here are the first few paragraphs. I really would appreciate honest thoughts on it, anything constructive.

Tombs half-buried in the parched clay cast no shadows at noon. The flowering trees scattered with only a few, buttery leafs, offered little respite from the sun's omniscience. Even the broad gate over the entrance of the village cemetary left just a thin, cool band of darkness beneath. A motorbike passed by this gate. Though the driver looked straight ahead, the woman sitting side-saddle on back of the bike, helmetless, peered absently into the bone yard. Her eyes, for a moment met those of the boy.
He dropped into a squatting position which appeared natural for him. Though he found precious little releif next to the thin tree, which, in that season, did not have blossoms. When the sun moved westward, over the next half hour, he managed to lay down next to one of these long sarcophagi in a splinter of darkness. The tomb was tiled in a colorful frescoe contrasting the hard, red earth beside it. A few blades of grass, yellowed by the heat, poked through cracks of parched earth. In the disance, the contrasting land became greener with the rubber trees and mango trees, past the rice paddies, and beyond that, the foothills rose to the mountains along the western spine of the island, ancient and always changing.
Two other boys of the same endeavoring age, riding together on a single motorbike, passed under the archway and into the cemetary. The machine puttered and popped from desrepair or diluted fuel, chain clinking, leaving a trail of dust and blue smoke behind that mocked them. One of these newcomers carried a small pail and a spade. He scrabbled off the bike, towards the boy resting beside the grave, and began inspecting the tombs. The third, the driver, lit a cigarette, leaning forward on the handlebars after taking a drag. He was clearly the eldest and the largest of the trio.
"Where do I dig, Flat Top?" the one carrying the pail and spade asked. His eyes were of the goggling type seen on ocean fish. He could not have been more than twleve years old.
The one called Flat Top now rested on his elbows, though still in the shade of the tomb. He had high cheek bones, giving him a V-shaped face. All of this accentuated the flatness of the top of his head. Not deigning to get to his feet and help, he said, "Anywhere."
The driver peered into the distance in a way suggesting he could not care less, that he was only the taxi bringing them there. Yet he carried an air of being the supervisor of the whole operation. When a motorbike passed on the road behind them, he didn't even look to see who drove it.
"It cannot be just any one. It must be special somehow."

decent meter being used in this

It does have a certain pull to it. Hard to define??

how is weight hazy?

how can the small of one's back be tugged? literally nothing there to grab.

how can she stare at the stars if your head is above her head?

WHAT IS HAPPENING

puerile. yet has potential.

vexation is a terrible word. at least characterize your plight with a worthy word.

also, "feeding" a feral sea bird would just ensure it keeps following you. so your solution for "cut loose the sinews" is no solution at all.

also, would a feral sea-bird swim? also, the hyphenated sea-bird is distracting.

oh, and "bright darkness"? come on, man.

cut out the first two sentences. they're the most try-hard shit I've ever read. start with the third... "The broad gate over...."

why "this" gate? why "the" boy and not "a" boy. the latter adds an element of mystery.

don't tell us about the driver. just tell us about the woman on the back sitting side saddle .
read more.

"all my eyes could tour" would be an awesome line if you hadn't used "toured" just above it.

the "Once," throws me off. I don't know if it's the comma or what, but it makes your poem start with what feels like a stall-out in a manual transmission car.

feet don't explore customs. customs are abstract. you can metaphorically tie feet to the abstract. for instance you can "vote with your feet", ie: indicate preferences via the choices you make.

but exploring customs with feet doesn't sound right. not to me.

speaking of abstract- don't use the damn word in the poem. it's one of those words that can be expressed in a thousand more creative ways. ethereal, fading, misty, ANYTHING but abstract.

+ my critiques in

thank you, didn't see your prior post. Will try to take all of this into consideration and post another draft

>the beast and I

I should be me.

can we ban the word sinews yet? when you see it in every other poem posted here, it's a bad sign.

>tepid
why? how does that relate to the hunt?

>gravity between us

so he's trying to kill you, too? does that explain the mutual attraction? if so, you need to inlcude the possibility of danger to yourself in this poem, of which there currently is none.

Who is this QT?

A couple of us are starting a monthly Yea Forums journal using submissions from here as the base. Anybody interested in submitting?

[email protected]

This is not a bad idea.

The man character is heavily inspired by some of Nicholas Cage's performances, specifically Kiss of a Vampire
“He keeps texting me.”
“Is there no way to stop it? Just tell him you have a meeting to prep for this afternoon,” Anna said, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“No,” I said tearing her arm away, “He is crazy. A crazy that does not stop. You saw how he tracked us down. You know where this is leading, what he really wants.”
“You said you weren’t going to be paranoid anymore. You’ve got to calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down! I’m not being paranoid, Anna! I’m being realistic. You’ve got to admit that not every person on this planet has good intentions!”
“It’s been seven years.”
“Seven years? History is forever, Anna. That meme is our contribution.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“No, Anna. That’s you, too. Have you read the Wikipedia page recently? You’re the biracial wife of the whitest man who ever lived, it reads, laughed at across the globe for eating a mayonnaise sandwich in a dorm cafeteria on April 12th, 2018.”

I want to try getting into writing humorously, because I'm currently writing nothing at all, and I'm hoping that maintaining a layer of irony while writing will lower the barrier to entry that is my fear of being terrible and having nothing to say.

I died last week - or rather, a part of me did. The physical part, to be precise. Somewhere between Wednesday the 4th and Thursday the 5th, my heart quietly pounded its last beat, my lungs released their last breath of air and my blood slowed to a crawl, then to nothing.

And then I woke up.

I knew immediately that something was wrong, but for hours the reality of the situation eluded me. The moon grew weary and was replaced, and in the early morning sun it became apparent that the blueish hue of my skin was entirely nonlunar.

I assumed at first there had been some sort of clerical error. The window for my soul to be evacuated had come and gone, yet here i was, anchored as I had always been to a lump of flesh, with the caveat that the flesh was now unmistakably dead flesh.

Weirdly poignant

This seems like imitation. It reads like something more concerned with sounding like good prose than being good prose. Figure out what imagery actually contributes to the story, and start writing in a voice that is more natural to you.

lilac honeydew on the Kentucky petals
cascades in rivers southern and folksy,
soaking into that virgin soil oft described
the leftover castaway of classical americana
storied and styled itself the
presumptuous victor of ephemeral meaning
lightly toiling for commendations of prose
a rigid structure of pretentious guile

where will it be posted?

bumping this post for visibility, could really use some feedback

>"feeding" a feral sea bird would just ensure it keeps following you. so your solution for "cut loose the sinews" is no solution at all

The point i'm trying to make here is "stop stringing me along. Cut me loose if you're not going to commit either way"

How can I make that point more effectively?

>oh, and "bright darkness"? come on, man
I'm kinda trying to describe a "night sky" type thing. The night sky is bright with stars, but still dark in aggregate. Maybe I'll try to come up with a way to convey that better

>"all my eyes could tour" would be an awesome line if you hadn't used "toured" just above it.
yeah I was trying to refer to that earlier line. Point being, "my focus shifted to you". How do you think I could better convey that?

The rest I'll work on and submit a new draft today, thanks

“You said yourself it doesn’t define you.”
“But not to him. Not to that bug-eyed fuckface on the library staircase. No, I know what he wants, and that’s a quote. An interview. He probably works for some blog. Some Brooklyn Vegan Bullshit.”
“So what if he wants something from you. We all want something. What do you want from him?”
“What do I want? What can I get?”
“You know.”
“No Anna! I don’t! I really fucking don’t.”
“A pitchman,” I paced away from her and she followed me.
“Not again. Not with this.”
“Stop walking away from me. Stop it.”
“No,” I pivoted around “You stop! I am the pitchman. I engineer and pitch. There is nothing more to it. I am sick and tired of this constant questioning.”
“Like I haven’t been loyal these past seven years. Like I haven’t helped you with everything, been there for everything.”
“Helping me by raising my blood pressure through the roof!”
“I didn’t do that.”
“You just helped me.”
“That’s right, trying to help you.”
“All you’ve ever done was help me.”
I calmed down and had a shower. A sport coat and slacks were laid out on the bed. We sat down at dinner and decided I would meet Art in Bennington’s for beers at 8. Anna knew all along my limitations.

The grey fog surrounds me
All the world is crying
Like a stomping foot
On the brown soil

Out the caravan window
Lives a brown-leaved place
That smells of living, decaying earth
Reaching, lost in timeless views

In twosome time
We pass our stay on ball of life
Listening to the chimes of eternity

'cause all drunken speak
is void and null, in the end
we are only passing time, waiting
for the blackness to return

make sure you guys critique other works if you're expecting critiques

kys

seems stiff, and with more descriptions then necessary. You could cut a whole bunch of stuff and be left with essentially the same text
>A few blades of grass, yellowed by the heat, poked through cracks of parched earth
like in here

a bit cliche desu. some comparisons feel odd, but also im not that into love poems

here's mine. I know its pretentious af but I wanna hear your thoughts
-
Lays there, undisturbed, be a quiet anty hill.
Douses sunlight conspicuously, bathed in morose sat.
Outer workings afoot, leadeth is a stormy line, carried provisions and treasures much, who trembles grounded disarrays into wherever tranquil expanses rest.
Once coming, treasures foraged or removed, marches towards concentration on anty hill's hidden trove.
There stayed, subterraneously protected from, among they spores seeded, made way to botrytiae and a kingdom more.
Time later came they, all uniquely alike, queenly led to the kingly bed, feasted all on the fungi treasure'd bore.

Attached: Ophelia.png (535x644, 26K)

dreadfull, I struggle to even call it poetry, poetry is motion, this are just worlds. Wheres the rythm? the cadene and musicality? I'd be shocked if english was your native lenguage, I can imagine other explanation.

it's really not that bad. Bit depressing and over the top but it's alright

How's the opening to this one dawgs?

write like you're still alive

the opening is cliche and "spare me this vexation" is stilted in an eye-rolling way

i would strongly recommend letting your images suggest instead of nailing them to themes like Lutheran theses

fellow redneck!
>presumptuous victor of ephemeral meaning
>lightly toiling for commendations of prose
>a rigid structure of pretentious guile
okay no, calm yourself

Attached: Dogwood.jpg (909x914, 181K)

try to read it out loud, its the antithesis of everything a good poem ought to be, as in, refreshing for your throat like a glass of clean water. This shit is vile.
Here, let me give you a good example of something that just rolls out of your tongue.

I see the barges floating
So closely on the bay
my hearth tempted with longing
yet they are always far away

Against this fate I've raged
to lift truth's vital veil
but all my world's been staged
To "life" anew I set my sail

I tread the rigid boards
and bend myself instead.
Another curtain call;
another ego fed.

The limelight comes and fades;
the sweat falls from my brow
now everybody cheers,
another perfect show.

You've come to love your cage,
you know this to be true
The flowers on this stage
will die along with you

Attached: 1551812064536.png (831x799, 329K)

consider myself calmed. didn't particularly like those last few lines either. i'll revise, see what i can drum up here.
as for your own piece, i think i like where you going with it-- the malaise in summer vibe, like drifting down the cold river current all slow and lazy, on a raft made from deadwood wrapped in vines-- but i feel as though you could be more concise in your wording. don't pantomime an earnest fucking hemmingway, because that power in description is very much there and definitely serves the piece more than hurts it, but at the same time tends to jump the shark in some places. i would advise a more happy median. post more if you have it though: would love to see what you got cooking.

thanks, i plan on this piece becoming obnoxiously maximalist before any further revisions, but i'll try to cut any sharks i jump