Poetry Critique Gen

Post a poem, give some helpful advice to someone else. No rhymes allowed edition

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I'll kick it off with a few of my own

Heads bowed, child
cries out
into the empty,
conditioned air.

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Poets can't help
but drag their flowers in with them everywhere
goddammit.
Talking ass-backwards
word backwash,
cut the shit and give it to me straight,
touch my soul or shut your trap.
Is what I think but
don't say.
May be
there is
more,
but who can honestly tell?

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>be me
>please,
>please be me

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Wringing impression
negative space of a fist from
last night,
dish rag
crushed, unrinsed,
forgotten.
Albino heart
bled dry
encased in formaldehyde,
conch shell
washed ashore
speckled and bent.
"You're the only person who'd see that."
Damn my
twisted, disingenuous eye,
interpolating latent interpretations,
blending the reflection of reality
with the tint of fatigued recognition. In short,
story-
tellers
tell
stories.

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I came home and it was cold
where could she be? I asked the dark
this journey has brought me wealth
so that we may move far from here
I heard you outside my window
you were weeping in longing

Open mic in Madison
full up before I blew in.

First act
words crawling through molasses
moaning about a callous
no longer on
his thumb, trades guitar for accordion.
Shoulder strap
broke half-
way through his second song, he struggled against
the will of his instrument a
flipping and writhing
catfish.
Noodled (fruitlessly) for his fifteen
then said
"Someone buy me a shot!"
familiar stumble
inebriated acrobat.

Stout lady
at the table to my right
shielding a mandolin, shoveling
sweet potato fries
prescription goggles strapped to her face
eyes expanded by glass refracted
gray snakes trailing gently
jug of orange juice
wolf-
whistling.
Suspended, undead, waiting, impatiently
she refuses to use
her walker in the corner, instead she
floats
back and forth
from the bar
formless, flowery
dress trailing
rambunctious ghost

Young couple
to my left
her looking at
him and him
looking at
the air aways away
she warmed up her voice
and
he set up his pedalboard
she was singing before
he was plugged in.
Later, see them out on the corner
four lungs
stuffed with anything but breath
skin twitching with the rhythm of nicotine
tossing cigarettes and other
assorted instruments of addiction
in each hand
two jugglers.

I see them see
me disappearing.

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All your lines are very prosey, i'd say either prune them down a bit or expand on them and go even further in that direction. What sort of punctuation does your line break imply?

obviously the product of somebody whose sum life experience was uni. at best.
imo, when a writer resorts to meta-talk (e.g. interpolating latent interpretations - blending the reflection of reality) it's because there's no experience that they want to share, it's more a dead observation. I think it lacks aesthetic of any sort and is a form of masturbation, which I don't like to read. Everything up to that point and the twist about storytellers telling stories was ok. I didn't like dish rag and crushed unrinsed being next to each other, it evoked a crusty dishrag that dried out and left caked shit all through it, which it looks like you went for, but it was such a pathetic image (not that your work is pathetic, but that the image itself was of something pathetic). It took me out of the poem immediately.

Was it just the description of somebody who was beaten up? If you were going for a whining incel as the image, then you did it.

sweet scent of female shit, wafting on the wind
sniffing soul strapped in, not unwilling, but unhinged
taken by the tarnished smell,
i am burnished by the bouquet of my belle

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I wrote it in the Korean Sijo format, so I can't expand or shrink it. But I intended the line breaks as stops and periods, and hoped that the reader would read it and understand where the speaker spoke and when he didn't.

Moondog, that crazy loon
he'd rather sing than bark at the moon
he is the voice of the waves and the New York street
he is the voice of the Rhine and the old god’s beat
his spear and his beard and his viking busby
hold the voice of the solemn indian's plea
so, when you hear those skin drums ring,
listen to that old loon sing:
oo, hüs, trimba!

Wings whip the day sore
and growing in dusk
they loom from view to gloom
the bat's shadowplay on the moon

The whole first half of the poem is an image of a dish rag, so im glad you got that. The second half isn't an observation, its a commentary about the different ways one image can be interpreted by the mind. I also had reservations about the obvious meta-talk, but I think the assonance holds it together and it furthers the meaning of the poem. How fucked up is it one dish rag can appear so many different ways depending on the eyes seeing it?

He drinks water like wine and wine like water
The Wine is more purple than red
He rocks the glass back and forth, then in driven loops,
Held between his thumb and forefinger
The glass is empty for the second time

They say the human body is like machine.
It needs fuel, maintenance and lubrication
It amuses him to imagine the wine
as the blood running through the machine
carrying away grime and gunk from the gears and cogs.

He's just had some bad news, of the spiritual kind.
0, The Fool (reversed)
X of swords
III of wands

That's like being told your house and family perished in the flames
but the dog got away

The third glass is running low
and it's covered in fingerprints

Another night of sleep lacking a
Woman's embrace
A female presence to warm my
Bedroom's cold space
Pale body reclined against mine
Her hair in my face,
Hands wrapped around a quivering waist
our legs interlaced.

I was trying to do 9-5-9-5 but I'm not sure if I'm properly counting syllables

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>sum life experience was uni.
Are you missing the sarcasm? is it not clear enough?

I dont know much about sijo so Im glad I asked! Syllable based poetry without verse sometimes doesn't translate as well into english I always think, but Its an interesting experiment

Love the imagery you're evoking, but is the tight rhyming and verse structure really in the spirit of moondog?

Sijo's great. A lot of people write in Haiku but Sijo is sort of the next step in terms of complexity, and I think English is better suited to it because one can actually string together concepts through it.

For those that don't know, Sijo's syllable format is more constructed around the natural breaks in a phrase, though lines generally fit the total syllable counts.
3 4 4 4
3 4 4 4
3 5 4 3