His poems are incredibly good and he's objectively one of the best poets out there

pseud faggot

See? You're probably just some frustrated faggot that think he's "special" and because you don't understand poetry, you express yourself by saying nigger shit. End your pathetic existence, faggot.

Seems like it's just a fancy expression of basic mysticism.

>most poetry is shit
Couldn’t agree more

SHE MEANS THAT NO OTHER WILL PERCEIVE HER SELF AS VIVIDLY AND COMPREHENDINGLY AS THE OTHERS PERCEIVE THEIR OWN SELVES.

INTEGRITY IS KEPT BY KEEPING TEMPTATION AWAY; WITH TACT, ONE SHOULD KEEP THE HEART FROM BEING TINGED BY THE PRYING TOUCH OF OTHERS; ONE'S PSYKHIC ESSENCE SHOULD REMAIN OCCULT; TO REVEAL ONE'S ESSENCE ENTAILS ONTIC VIOLATION, AND, ULTIMATELY, ONTOLYSIS; TO ONE: ONE'S ESSENCE; TO OTHERS: ONE'S APPEARANCE.

SOLITUDE IS THE SOUL'S SOLACE; DEVASTATING DESOLATION IS TO PRIVE THE SOUL OF SOLITUDE.

Attached: LILIA CORAZÓN PURO.jpg (612x612, 73K)

>ten times the words
>even less of an argument
Absolute pseud

What the fuck, this explanation is pretty good. Thanks user.

>WITH TACT, ONE SHOULD KEEP THE HEART FROM BEING TINGED BY THE PRYING TOUCH OF OTHERS

I'm curious about this. What happens if the person that "touches" her heart is someone that she is in love with? Does she remain with the same idea or she will show herself naked, raw and vulnerable as long the feeling is mutual?

Poetry is inevitably dog crap
The profound and all important meanings flutter away with time
Necessary contextualizaion is lost in a flash
All we have left is a barely correct sentence
What does it mean? How the hell are we supposed to know- and would it even matter if we did?
Probably not
One should look for meaning ahead of them, and leave good poetry merely as the wake that trails them, rippling into nothing

based, I like your writings man, when are you updating your site?

These poems are just Rilke tryhard shit.

>What happens if the person that "touches" her heart is someone that she is in love with?

WHEN THE HEART IS TOUCHED WITH LOVE BY A LOVED OTHER, INTEGRITY IS LOST, BUT THAT LOSS IS COMPENSATED WITH RECIPROCAL TOUCH —THIS IS THE ESSENCE OF MATRIMONY: INTERLINK BETWEEN TWO SOULS, SO THAT THE ONE IS MADE LIKE THE OTHER, AND THE TWO AS ONE.

>Does she remain with the same idea or she will show herself naked, raw and vulnerable as long the feeling is mutual?

EVEN AS AFFECT EFFECTS AN APERTURE TO THE HEART, THE VAULT OF ONE'S ENTITY REMAINS ACCESSIBLE ONLY TO GOD.

Attached: HEAR THE OCEAN.png (688x1010, 88K)

>uses the word light twice in the first 4 lines

Part of this seems like a white girl facebook post, but some of it is really good.
>That I, myself, am tucked away. Where none of them can reach me.
I dig this.

I think Malachi Black does really good work. He's only released one book of poems I'm aware of, but it's one of my favorite contemporary poetry collections.

Attached: malachi black.png (619x832, 380K)

This hardly seems particular to poetry.

who is this

Lucian Blaga.

i could buy this as car seat headrest lyrics

I feel that with free verse there's an especially great onus on the writer to be really creative with their figurative language and subject matter because it lacks the innately pleasing to read quality of poetry with rhyme and rhythm.

None of the poems here have that. Some of them are just a step above "live laugh love". Flowery prose with line breaks will always be shit, while even a trite but properly structured poem will a least be passable

This. Anyone thinking this is good is in over their head when it comes to poetry. Compare it to something by based Milosz, who is on an entirely different level:

And the city stood in its brightness when years later I returned,
And life was running out, Ruteboeuf’s or Villon’s,
Descendants already born were dancing their dances,
Women looked in their mirrors, made from a new metal,
What was it all for, if I cannot speak?
She stood above me, head like the earth on its axis,
My ashes were laid in a can under the bistro counter,

And the city stood in its brightness when years later I returned,
To my home in the display case of a granite museum
Beside eyelash mascara, alabaster vials, and menstruation girdles of an Egyptian princess,
There was only a sun forged out of gold plate,
On darkening parquetry the creep of unhurried steps,

And the city stood in its brightness when years later I returned,
My face covered with a coat though now no one was left
Of those who could have remembered my debts never paid,
My shames not forever, base deeds to be forgiven.
And the city stood in its brightness when years later I returned

>She stood above me, head like the earth on its axis,
Fuck that's good

>On darkening parquetry the creep of unhurried steps
very nice

It’s exacerbated by poetic form

What does form have to do with it? For what reason would a text written in sonnet form fare worse than other text?

Appreciate it for what it is instead of hating it for what it's not.
the form making the meaning more transient/ephemeral can be viewed as a plus, the way you can view mortality as more beautiful and Poetic precisely because of how fleeting their lives.

Ugh, saccharine mush

The more a work of text strays away from explicitness and clarity the more it’s meaning will be lost over time and space

Fine whatever

based

>The profound and all important meanings flutter away with time
my favorite poetry is old english
see the dream of the rood for one example

"The sun in the sky, cannot compare to your eyes
And the fire inside them.
The snow on the ground, cannot compare to how cold I feel when you're not around.
Just your presence alone helps me know that I’m alive;
You turned my house to a home now everything’s alright."

youtube.com/watch?v=uq73L-3jXmU

Attached: preciouselmo.png (381x66, 6K)

There is plenty of poetry that is explicit and clear, and plenty of non-poetry that is implicit and obscure.

Poetry is what is lost in translation

I would like to share a poem from Sadhguru, called "Of Leadership".

Of Leadership

When the Starlings fly in
their Collective Glory, can
anyone decipher the leader of
their magnificent act

The Heart beats, Glands secrete,
Kidneys purify, every cell performs
the most exacting functions
and the Brain reflects.

The many Billion Galaxies
of effervescent stars and nascent
space. Of Black holes and
Milky Ways, does someone see
a Center that leads

A Leader is a Fool

I'm curious as to what people think of Paul Celan. The mix of this sort of abstract expressionist style with invented compound words (which I assume is a result of

Attached: celan.png (297x323, 8K)

...writing in German) makes for a somewhat unusual style.

Sorry, didn't finish typing that out.

I used to play around with compounds for their power to suggest atmosphere, or provoke images where more routine diction fails, as in "blueflicker". But much more sparingly than in this translation, which in its literalness may, or may not, convey the effect to native German speakers. Compounds in any language, as they come into common usage, tend to meld such that we lose awareness of their parts, while they take on richer connotations from the multiplicity of encounters with them. This is something I haven't given much thought to recently, as I age into preference for wit and elegance over the visual. Dickinson takes this distancing between map-like scenario-making and imagery about as far as it can go, and it reads very differently when you're young than when old and in the habit of critical analysis.

To paraphrase what he's said about his own work, I'd say it's more about conveying the emotional shades and movements of the experience of an event as a whole, working more through the interplay of (indirectly) symbolic things and happenings. Anything involving a visual is essentially incidental to the overall thrust of the poem.

This one might do a better job of illustrating what I mean - all words connected to the visual play a purely functional role and are directed towards defining the symbolic object, nothing beyond that, no real attempt to create a sensual impression or "paint a picture".

Interesting that you mention Dickinson, she was among the writers Celan translated, I hadn't thought about it before but there are probably a few parallels you could draw between the two of them: collections of short, untitled poems grouped under general headings, use of the description of events in spheres of non-human entities in order to carry the significance of their poems, the treading of a line between lyric and aphorism, the branding of a unique and idiosyncratic rhythm and diction; all of which solidifies the sense of an author "world-building", engaging in a continuous, evolving work which accumulates in the reader's mind, which brings about the same effect you mention, in a way, of melding and taking on richer connotations as one becomes familiar with the author's particular universe.

It would be interesting to make a study of authors inheriting traits like these through the shifts of the years and centuries, and how a Modernist author can be reminiscent of a pre-Modernist one, but with the marks of chaos and deformity that follow from the massive changes in literature in the 20th century (not that those changes were necessarily bad, though).

Attached: celan_2.png (350x564, 15K)

Find the worst poems in the critique threads you can and post them here

Ah, that's why you write like a faggot:
You think like a faggot!

>Milosz
Nice user, now recommend me a book of his

dogshit

not a critique

‘I have a little cough, sir,
In my little chest, sir,
All night long I cough, sir,
I can never rest, sir,
And every time I cough, sir,
It leaves a little pain, sir,
Cough, cough, cough, sir,
There it is again, sir.

Oh, Doctor Milliken,
I shall surely die!’
‘Yes, pretty Susan -
So one day shall I.’

bro he just regurgitated some lacan 101 at you

OP, who's that? You might at least tell us that, not everyone frequents this everyday.

>PSYKHIC
misspelled a word there bud

>Also general poetry thread.
That feel when you still love a person who died 8 years ago.
***
My ginger star

When curtains of eternal night shall fall,
When perfect cold shall claim the cosmic throne
There will remain one ginger blazing ball
Among dead stardust, quenchless and alone.

Nor past the doom of universal end,
Nor when the time will cease in chance and fact
Will this red colour ever fade, my friend,
Still blazing bright as ever and intact.

It's not alive and neither it is dead,
It burns no fuel, but the untimely love --
The most pristine and purest ever bred,
Such that may you alone, my dear, behove.

Inviolable to petty earthen grasp
Of Death's crude effort it to arrogate,
It's to bestow, not ignorantly clasp;
By you alone, my dear, to create.

first poem pls be nice

I'm gay,
that is to say,
I'm homosexual,
that is, well,
I'm gay.

>I am his highness' dog at Kew;
>Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
This couplet is worth more than every poem in this thread put together. You cannot debate me.

Attached: 220px-Alexander_Pope_by_Mi_Dahl.jpg (220x273, 9K)

holy shit this couplet has no business being as good as it is

He's got plenty more, my friend

AGATHA!
SUPREME!

"Boring boring boring!"
"But my allusions are soaring?"

"No, no, no, no, they aren't,
you aren't even trained in the art."

What is a poet? In this moment,
I desire to show ... no, no ...
all wrong.

Why do poets always
split their sentences
across multiple lines?

So that you could ask this question.

Lilichka! - Instead of a letter
Tobacco smoke has eaten away the air
The room is a chapter from kruchenykh’s hell*
Recall: behind this window, in a frenzy of despair,
I first caressed your tender hands

You’re sitting like that now, with your iron heart
One more day – and will you drive me out at all?
It will then take me long to put my shivering broken arm
Into the sleeve in the dim hall

I’ll run out, I’ll throw my body into the street
Wild, lashed with despair, I’ll go insane
Please, don’t, my darling, my good one,
We’d better say goodbye today.

You see, wherever you may run to,
My love hangs over you like a bad dream
Please, let me howl out the bitterness
Of offended grievances in this last scream

If a bull ever gets tired out
It’ll leave and lay sprawled in cold waves
I have no other sea except your love
And, crying, for your mercy my heart vainly craves

If a tired elephant wants to rest
Regal, in burning sands it will lie down,
I have no other sun except your love
But I even don’t know where and with whom you are now.

Should you cause such pain to a poet
He would barter you for money and fame
Alas, no other ringing can please me
But the ringing of your beloved name

I won’t take poison or throw myself down the stairs
And I won’t pull the trigger against my temple
No other blade except the blade of your stare
Can ever make me tremble

You’ll forget tomorrow that I crowned you,
That this love burnt out my flowery heart
And the carnival of vain days will, whirling,
Tear the pages of my books apart...

Will the dry leaves of my words
Make you stop, breathing avidly?
Let me pave with this last tender verse
Your steps, as you’re leaving rapidly.

Attached: img_user_file_5571cfe3ec914_0_11.jpg (640x480, 72K)

The poem is by Lucian Blaga, a Romanian poet. His language and choice of words are very ritualistic and 'tectonic'. The original is remarkable, but the English translation is terrible in comparison, it reads precisely like pretentious garbage. As a general rule, don't bother with Romanian poets unless you know the (poetic) language very well and have decent understanding of the folklore and overall 'Romanian soul'.

cus they are pretentious

WORDS SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES, YOU COWARD, AND NOT THE AUTHOR. YOU HAVE NEVER READ AND WILL NEVER WRITE NO MATTER HOW MANY BOOKS YOU HAVE FINISHED AND THE NUMBER OF WORDS YOU HAVE PUT ON PAPER.

Ideally according rhythm, and perhaps the image; if cowards, pretension.

Finished with my woman 'cause she
Couldn't help me with my mind
People think I'm insane because
I am frowning all the time

All day long I think of things but
Nothing seems to satisfy
Think I'll lose my mind if I
Don't find something to pacify

Can you help me
Occup up my brain?

I need someone to show me the
Things in life that I can't find
I can't see the things that make true
Happiness I must be blind

Make a joke and I will sigh and
You will laugh and I will cry
Happiness I cannot feel and
Love to me is so unreal

And so as you hear these words
Telling you now of my state
I tell you to enjoy life
I wish I could but it's too late

aesthetics
it creates a nice uniform block of text on the page

>I need someone to show me the
>Things in life that I can't find
These things don't exist and people that say that they do are naive and infantile optimists. Life is a never-ending chain of suffering and despair and your only two options are either stoicism or suicide.

Attached: 2175659.jpg (645x484, 86K)

they do exist user,just because you never experienced them doesn't mean that they are not real.I know from experience because I was exacly like you until I found them.

Attached: lanonymous-05-05-18-sat-15-45-20-no-45166513-if-only-you-knew-how-different-things-39950239.png (500x566, 108K)

Except you find "such" things, and then you lose them, and then comes realization that it's all the same shit no matter how hard you try to crawl back into your torn asunder placenta of infantilism and optimism.

Attached: 1372365820469.jpg (528x604, 63K)

because it rhymes?

Why do poets always split their sentences
Across multiple lines?

Compare this enjambment with yours and you might understand one use of the device

Very intimate to my current situation. Thank you user, I am touched by it.

Just in case, that's Mayakovskiy, not me. But yeah, this is in general some of the best love poems I've ever read, partially due to it coming from like the manliest chad thundercock in town. It's a really nice blend of hardness and healthy emotionality. Here's a fucking astonishing love poem from him:
russianfuturists.wordpress.com/2017/02/12/vladimir-mayakovsky-a-cloud-in-trousers-english/
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Cloud_in_Trousers
[...]
You think I’m delirious with malaria?

This happened.
In Odessa, this happened.

“I’ll come at four,” promised Maria.

Eight…
Nine…
Ten.

Soon after,
The evening,
Frowning,
And Decemberish,

Left the windows
And vanished in dire darkness.

Behind me, I hear the neighing and laughter
Of candelabras.

You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior:
A bulk of sinews
Moaning,
Fidgeting.
What can such a clod desire?
But a clod desires many things.

Because for oneself it doesn’t matter
Whether you’re cast of copper
Or whether the heart is cold metal.
At night, you want to wrap your clamor
In something feminine,
Gentle.

And thus,
Enormous,
I hunch in the frame,
And with my forehead, I melt the window glass.
Will this love be tremendous or lame?
Will it sustain or pass?
A big one wouldn’t fit a body like this:
It must be a little love, — a baby, sort of,
It shies away when the cars honk and hiss,
But adores the bells on the horse-tram.
I come face to face
With the rippling rain,
Yet once more,
And wait
Splashed by the city surf’s thundering roar.

Running amok with a knife outside,
The night caught up to him
And stabbed him,
Unseen.

The stroke of midnight
Fell like a head from a guillotine.

The silver raindrops on the windowpane
Were piling a grimace
And yelling.
It was as if the gargoyles of Notre Dame
Started yelping.

Damn you!
Haven’t you had enough yet?
Cries will soon cut my throat all around.

I heard:
Softly,
Like a patient out of his bed,
A nerve leapt
Down.
At first,
He barely moved.
Then, apprehensive
And distinct,
He started prancing.
And now, he and another two,
Darted about, step-dancing.

On the ground floor, the plaster was falling fast.
[...]

Attached: 400b4d485bdee25bef09a65b4ab91bd0.jpg (378x500, 67K)

Poem written by an 8 year old going round on Twitter, what do you think?

twitter.com/jackshoegazer/status/1127224707974094848

Attached: shit.jpg (960x1200, 146K)

Well, it's written by an 8 year old. The only other option is that it's some post-modern contemporary artist installation.

I guess. Was just asking since everyone in the tweets mentions thinks it's incredible.

>everyone in the tweets mentions thinks it's incredible
Well, people are easily impressed nowadays. I was reading Borodino by memory when I was something like 3 or maybe 4.
Pic is a 6-7 y/o kid from XXIII century making an "self-portrait" of him being a badass horsed knight.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Onfim

Attached: Онфим_(200).gif (1414x934, 17K)

But where's the rhyme? Where's the meter? Idk man, not really my thing.

I really like this

Dusty sands of the City of Irem
Lay heavy upon the stones in dream,
Tracing memories upon the surface
But still fearing the unholy purpose
Of the Giants, Magog and Gog,
Holding those of god agog
To how they left with their power.
An homage to that depthless hour,
Spent searching the Nameless City,
Sighted from a dune seeped in perfidy
by a man madly forming poetry.

include titles when quoting poetry, you fuck

only a journalist could sincerely believe that poetry "strays away from explicitness and clarity." I give you 1/10 for earning the (you)

>I I I I I
>me my me my me
that's gay as fuck

how old are you? unironically

Attached: 1550425739996.jpg (720x450, 31K)

-∞/10

Why tho?

the explanation would be exactly as long as all the thousands of poems I've ever read

It just means that you're unable to formulate your thoughts short enough. There's no reason to act like an asshole.

not trying to be an asshole. what I'm telling you is to read more poetry. I could give you line edits but that would do you less good than a book of poems

Ive read quite a few poetry. Maybe not that much, but plenty. You could at least say if you have some grammatical, lexical or whatever type of issue, or just say "it's too generic, don't like it". English is my second language, I might do some mistakes.

Cliches:

>eternal night
>perfect cold
>cosmic throne
>blazing ball
>dead stardust
>doom of universal end
>time will cease
>color fade
>still blazing
>not alive nor dead
>untimely love
>pristine and pure (in the context of love)
>earthen grasp
>any memento mori shit directed to "my dear"

There's a cliche in every single line. No new wit nor new image nor interesting perspective is revealed. Why are you so keen to beat the corpse of long dead themes and styles?

Are you retarded?
The whole reason poetry is good is because it is shrouded in mystery and favors beauty over analysis
Don’t deny the obvious just to have an argument

I liked it user. Not the best but better than most of the free verse trash posted here

Well, this is legit and true, thanks. I posted a couple other things here before, and anons told me it's like the The Rime of the Ancient Mariner all over again.
>Why are you so keen to beat the corpse of long dead themes and styles?
One reason being that you learn from what you read, like father like son. Other is that what I end up with depends on the mood, I won't try to superficially change what I write just for the sake of it sounding less cliche if it's what I really do want to say. Another is that I don't really write anything from a "writer perspective" so to say, for me it's just a manner of "recursive psychotherapy" if it makes any sense. I perfectly realize that some parts of what I write won't even make the slightest bit of sense for people who don't know me personally. Either way, thank you for taking time to respond.
Here's another one, I figure it might maybe be a bit better, but realistically it's pretty much the same style.

From all that I've ever knew ran I away
Along with the ceaseless current of time;
And same as clock hands I just could not stay,
Succumbing myself under shackling rime.

Woe is me, little thus far did I know
That to nought would come this futile stampede,
For was my pursuer a thorn-wreathed crow,
Who carried the sorrow's bittering seed.

Him I discern, even sated with snow.
Still holds in talons this odious wight
An omen of grief that I can't forgo,
And hides back in pitch-black profound of night.

Last remnants of warmth had vanished throughout.
Woe is me, the sphere of the world is split:
One half wrapped in winter's somnolent shroud,
Other peers at verge of celestial pit.

Creeping within, for uncounted eras
Were constellations enkindled and nixed.
Whereof whisper these stellar chimeras
Midst devoid of all life space inbetwyxt?

And now, as the clockwork went roundly still,
Whole frigid orb comes alike to a halt.
Woe is me, we both, pierced to marrow with chill,
Precipitate down empyrean vault.

I can not be saved, I'm as good as dead,
This foreign welkin shall make my tombstone.
Deep down beneath mine lids, in swollen dread
The iris of my eyes at last are drown.

Yet, as our souls we entwined in a kiss,
Has bound thine witchcraft together us two.
Sharing days with you is all that I miss.
Oh, woe is me, I am still loving you.

Thank you, user.

Attached: 13647112374.png (2048x2103, 283K)

(you) are the true retard for believing a poem may be anything but explicit and clear. Maybe you believe this because your own piddling verses retreat to a mental refuge of the obscure and the ambiguous

A tree is planted within me,
Written frequent with soul’s pages,
Leaves are torn from my heart
And burnt upon an altar.
These offerings of spring
Sprung from lost times anew,
A whispered breeze – death
Upon the wind – brittle in meaning,
Alight stars on strings together.

Found this while looking up the original: youtube.com/watch?v=T2ysDFSYIBk

Blaga is legit but Stanescu is better (especially his elegies).

Clearly this thread is filled with ignorant anglos but oh well.

Do you like Tennyson's famous poem "Break, Break, Break"?
It's very clearly about the feelings of alienation that come with mourning. Is it not a good poem? What about it isn't explicit and clear?

Both of these scan awkwardly.

just wrote this on the shitter:

Sit I with an idle mind
The middle of the day.
Books piled high,
All broken-spined,
And with yet much to say.
My notebooks, which I rightly hide,
Are naught but bales of hay.
When I through the window spied
A blue-sky-feathered jay
I wiped my eyes, deeply sighed,
Turned, and walked away.
Now I at my table scribe
and wonder what doves say.
Not the false hawk-calls or yawns
which just turn love away.
An empty mind, a bird defied:
Which words are mine?
Whose song quote they?

Why do poets always
split up their sentences across
metered lines? Structure.

Many reasons.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Note that it's all structured around ending most lines with -ing verbs, and how that pulls you along to the next line. It creates a "tension" that the next line resolves. Complete phrase, verb that begins the next phrase, the rest of the phrase, verb that begins the next phrase, the rest of the phrase, etc.
Good poets break their lines in ways that add or emphasize meaning and/or structure.
Bad
poets break
lines in ways that make
no
f
uckin
g
sense
.

>yeah we’ll youre stupid cause you are
Brilliant

t sticle face unsuitable for a blue board

Attached: Capture.jpg (131x126, 9K)

unironically gay

if actually by an 8 year old that kid will be the greatest writer alive by 30

If you haven't read that poem before I don't want to have anything to do with you

children are god-tier poets

I cannot find the original version
Could you please post it for us?

This is just as cliche-ridden as the previous one. One of the things you have to ask yourself is how to gain the most from every line or word. For example do you really need to describe night as 'pitch black and profound'? That's both redundant and melodramatic.

You mention Coleridge and if you really want to "learn from what you read" I suggest drawing more techniques from him. Coleridge has one of the clearest and most poetically succinct styles in English. Every image in the Rime stands out like glass. This image when the boat first appears for example

The western wave was all a-flame.
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.

Cut out everything murky and melodramatic in your poetry. Focus on clarity and succinct communication. You aren't able to make it work like the Romantics or any other good poet yet.

why don't you kill you're self and join your czech dadi

poetryfoundation.org/poems/44687/the-nymph-complaining-for-the-death-of-her-fawn

Had it liv’d long it would have been
Lilies without, roses within

This is pretty bad
Well I see why now, If that were the case why did OP decide to post the English version when it's so terrible. It reminds me of a kid back in my poetry club who thought he was super enlightened, too . which all of poems sounded the same.

>light lmao

shit like this is why they say you have to be a poet to translate poetry