Critique thread as the last one died

critique thread as the last one died.
here's a poem

>ex aqua

Blue on blue, almost indistinct

Against the whim of wave aglow

The crossing color binds them so-

Watch them mirror High Apollo,
But sadder. Sadder, darker, trust

Broken up like minuteterra

Shifting for another era.

Broken up like pale-armed Hera
Could never hope to do.

Little birds flit above them, Anu

Not truly exerting potency

Over those skimming above Enki.
Currents snake by, surfacing Abzu

Reflecting the deeper, older Nammu.

Transparent and threatening like broken glass,

or the air between man and an angered Shamash,
Shining down on inhospitable breakers of truce-

Cyclopean glaring at loud-thundering Zeus,

Spying maiden upon maiden in time of crisis,

Seeing the loveliest of all in Sothis-Isis.
Blue on blue, representing emanations

Upon emanations, reflections upon reflections.

Blue on blue in beautiful cerulean flirtation,

Blue on blue in breathtaking aquamarine fixation

On water, and water, in humble genuflection

To the Gods, who made all by Water's subjection.

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Other urls found in this thread:

xkcd.com/610/
justpaste
twitter.com/AnonBabble

Reads like a rap song.
Wrong. Wrought of impatience and mockery.
Employ more diction

3/10

>minuteterra rhyming with era
Sorry, 2/10

what are you even saying

It reads like someone in high school just found out about Rotting Christ or Therion and got inspired by the lyrics. Pretty cute tbqh.

Since I'm already here, drunk and got nothing to do, I guess I'll share a couple things. Posted it here some time ago.
Mind you, not first language English speaker, I bloody bet there's some ridiculous grammar involved.

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.

My cock,

As big as London's clock,
Hard like a rock,
Goes in a sock,
I'm ready to squawk,
Mom turns the lock,
She didn't knock,
We need to talk,
I'm a laughing stock.
-mk

The opening paragraph to my doomer novel:
>I could see before me an outright spectacle; frightful, vain, and ugly—a generation born soulless and untethered to the past or the future, their minds nourished by trivial interests pursued passionately. The machinery in operation behind those pale, thoughtless eyes had started to resemble the machinery behind the plastic screens: a soulless expression in an applicable language, neither pure nor faulty, but functional nonetheless, always clicked and manipulated to produce simple notes of pleasure and facilitate unbridled vanity. The result was an illusion of self-awareness. To stand and watch, one could almost recognize the pattern of instinctive pulses which had brought about the spectacle…could almost bridge the mysterious gap between what was and what ought to be. The burlesque performance that took place before those uninterested eyes could be assumed to reflect the muddled, aggressive mind that existed behind.

tldr

A true literary masterpiece. I can sense the euphoric disruption which is conveyed through the word "squawk." To squawk is to do something so terrible and ugly, yet at the same time natural. Furthermore, the word squawk must have been used in order to show the reader how necessary the primal urges are to relieve, that one will squawk, as if in danger, to release themselves. The consistent meter of the poem is interrupted by the reference to "London's clock," which brings to mind the disrupting chant of the clock at midday. It is as if you were telling us that you're desire to unleash your loins will not only result in the disrupting of the smooth passage of time, but will also serve as a spectacle for an incoming observer.


Bravo Please publish pawpaw

Thank you kind sir, I see you are a man of culture, since you liked my poem, here is another one:

Nigger

No one cared to know my name
Inferior to all in our god's game
Garbage unwanted by all the same
Governed by a sense of shame
Even so, forever higher I must aim
Racial position by my deeds reclaim.
-mk

This is pretty good. The vision you produce is worth considering; the poem expresses the poetics of dead religions. You do this creatively and entertainingly, and the message is accessible given knowledge of the names you reference. Thank you for sharing.

Here is some criticism. Much to its weakness, the poem lacks worldliness. As of now it expresses a tame relativity, and a subversive eye could, for truth, dismiss all that you assert. The mistake you make (that most artists make) is to conflate what is exciting with the divine. But nature revels in mundanity. Experience makes it apparent that the fantastic cannot be claimed, for the fantastic doesn’t concern the lives of those who witness it. At the same time, whatever concerns the fantastic is shared amongst us, for it is produced of the same substance that is responsible for life.

Art that really scratches my itch knows this, and is reserved. So, to conclude, I mean to say that there’s no need for expressing outright what is heavenly, for that is well known, and people will respond as such. To really capture the interest of people, you must appeal to their experience, for which you can look only to yourself. Good luck.

Do people tend to like it or dislike it if you give a brief idea of what you were going for with your writing in these threads? Or is it better to just let it stand on its own?

So I've been thinking about writing, I've always enjoyed writing essays when I'm allowed to give my own thoughts. I have ideas for short stories and books, but I'm unsure if I have the skills yet to put them on paper. What do you guys think of this? Just some random thoughts of mine taken to the extreme. Sorry it's kinda emo.

My soul feels unwelcome here, an alien amongst others. As if my nature is extraterrestrial, most apparent in social gatherings. I sit back watching from my out of body theater as others talk just to vocalize, tell stories that are on backlogs for such occasions. In the past I had wished I was more social, more talkative. Maybe if I was given another body, another chance, things would be different. But new bones could never change the nature of my being. If only fairy tales were real, I could wish to be back amongst my people, people who understand and appreciate the way I am. But I live on, surviving in this land unwelcoming to me. Marooned here, the search party has given up.

I CAN INTO POLYTHEISM!
CRAWLING IN MY SKIN, THESE WOUNDS, THEY WILL NOT HEAL!
PUERILE BUFFOONERY
xkcd.com/610/
POLITICS OF RESENTMENT
DO AS YOU WILL.
ROMANTICIZED DRIVEL

>and untethered to the past or the future
So the present then? Apparently that's a problem.

>nourished by trivial interests pursued passionately
Seems like "nourished" is the wrong word then.

>neither pure nor faulty, but functional nonetheless
"but" is not a logical conjunction.

M A X I M U M
C O N D E S C E N S I O N

>Blue on blue, almost indistinct
i would change almost to most, sounds better for the meter imo
>Broken up like minuteterra
>Shifting for another era.
i dont like rhymescheme on the minuterra-era rhyme. rhyming on trust would sound better there i think
>Could never hope to do.
seems a little short on the meter? on syllable more would sound good.

too much work to go thogh the rest of it but i thought the beginning was pretty good with these small adjustments

Below a blanket of clouds marbled by the sky
A web of foam hugging the sea

No yous for fags

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first crit then I'll post like a goode boye
I like it
good but you'll wear yourself out making that an entite novel, still I like it, although some may not have the patience to stay
pretty good for what you say you're doing, it's not bad at all, but if you want to write something big, self insert isn't the way to go, as you may run out of things. I say absolutely go for a short story with this. Make sure it has a point.
really like that but can't explain why, I think I just like simplicity

Here's mine. You'll have to be in the mood to read though, but it should be something at least a little entertaining.
It's a rough first chapter.
justpaste dot it/33dz3

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Critique thread? Time to post
Never rate, only show your work
When others write, ignore and smirk
Anons, not worthy of your roast.

>The house the boy called home
Stoped reading there, it doesn't sound right and we don't know the boy yet so using "the" is not correct but I'm not sure about that. I think you should change the first sentence a little bit so the "the"s are not so close tougher. For example : the house which was called home by the boy

Not him but passive voice as your first godamn line is a horrible idea.

Thread saved.

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You might be right, I was just trying to illustrate what I mean by giving an example of what sounds better in my opinion.
Do you think that "the house the boy called home" sounds natural? It might be just me being retarded

Might be better as "the boy's home" but I didn't stop reading because of the original line desu

Tnot him but how about you post your thoughts and critique you fucking nigger.

It’s fine, critiques about single lines of writing should be taken with a grain of salt
t. never reads more than 3 pages at a time

Honestly, the only thing I really want to know is
Is it YA? Please tell me I'm not writing like YA. Anything else can be fixed, but if my whole style is fucked then so am I. If you feel it is YA, tell me why, if you could.

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Winds swirl over the deep;
Waters lie still, unstirred;
Twin poles may never meet.

Sitting, watching, breathing,
The hidden one remains
Silent, waiting below.

No light had touched that shrouded figure,
Who never knew the sun's caress.
Yet dream he did, within his tomb,
of the veil torn and the darkness fled.

Muddied hands and a running faucet;
Lumps of clay rising above the dirt;
Leaping and shouting, glory and joy.

Strengthen the metaphor. Work on solidifying the symmetry between the first and last two stanzas; the punctuation and line length/number of the first and last stanzas slightly mirror each other. If youre going to go for a vague, atmospheric tone in each stanza, there should be a stronger link between each one's images/metaphors.
3/10
-------------------------------------------
Here's my poem:
I can recall one summer’s day
A child, clinging to his father’s gait,
Exclaimed: “Why do we always want
The season that’s most distant
To return?”

The father was full of praise
For the child’s propitious gaze,
And they strolled from there on out
In silence.

Off in a more temperate state
These two must presently be,
Drifting farther and farther away
From where we once stood.

>quinn nodded
>they heard
>it glowed
>quinn let
>samuel kept
this lack of variation style is one I associate pretty heavily with YA, and in fact you'll see plenty of writers do this outside of YA. unless used with a very specific kind of narration, it's the mark of an amateur who hasn't stopped to think much about their style yet. the nice thing is that it's easy to fix if you're mindful of it. try playing around with sentence structure, maybe something like this;

>Quinn nodded. The sound of the slamming cabin door echoed loudly as Samuel moved his fingers over the stick in his son’s hands. Springing to life, the mark glowed faintly red, pulsing as the stick began to move on its own. Quinn let it go; it spun, turned in the circle he made, finally came to a stop, Samuel keeping his focus on the movements all the while as Quinn looked on. The marks on Samuel’s arm ceased to glow.
you could also stick an adverb at the beginning, "tentatively, quinn nodded", or something.

>Circle, circle, circle, round and round it went. A distraction, a distraction, in the dirt.
small nitpick but the three "circle"s alongside two of everything irks me