Poetry Thread

bupmp

Fun poem

Train Poem

In my mind's eye’s iris
by the train tracks and mist,
farewells follow, her friends
and the cat that she’ll miss
more than anything else
waiting on the platform.

When it’s time to go they
disappear with the hiss
of departure’s approach,
leaving the sleepy miss
to look out the window
of her compartment coach.

Then fades in a dream-show
from which she awakens,
in sweat, slowing down to
a stop—her coach vacant,
the train having arrived
at her destination.

second stanza too flower childish

The body has great rhythm. I like how some of the rhymes are informal and freeform. First line is awkward-- maybe "in the iris of my mind"-- and last line kinda ruins the rhythmic flow because of "destination."
let me taste the hour
of flight, when the roads
in dreams lead to this
ease. a
mist of bliss.
that, even for a blink,
blinds me. and
hides me. from
the wake of an endless
fruitless godless day

The Fisherman of the Boondocks

Over the sleet on concrete streets I see piles of pages
Scattered roses of proses of sages, trapped in medium like cages
A cryptic fisherman of the mind hides and lures the gazes
so far so blind to the leaves he leaves outside of their caves
The green thumbed shearer of Yggdrasil found in Brazil
Plants seeds like daffodils swallowed by a hound like the Baskervilles'
Pieces of books in nooks, no one looks, heads shook, simplism
I ask the man selling darkening fruits of cognition's lyricism
Second-hand dime novels like brothels of aging whores growing morals
like old pages grow mold and bud in your brains like corals
I hear the tale of the eccentric unorthodox of the boondocks
Walking blocks, tearing books and placing their pages in stocks
The guy expects to catch your eye, pick your interest at best
And today you may go out of your way to read a book by his request

"my mind's eye's iris" is such a silly image and unnecessary to the rest of the stanza, specially because the rest of it seems to be third person omniscient rather than first person, and the protagonist is the woman in the train, no? I like how there is a mention of a cat and a hiss but unrelated to each other as if it is a hovering theme, things like "sleepy miss" sound like they are forced for the sake of a rhyme, and "dream show" is also a weak piece of imagery, dull.

do i pome right?

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this is pathetic

That's not very helpful. Better to list all the reasons it sucks so I can make up a better one tomorrow.

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Better to read poetry for a year before writing crap

I like William Blake

Didn't ask

This is my fave poem, it's by Charles Ives

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I like girls
They're hot
Dayum

"Touch grass"

user threw a fit
Hissy pissy fit
Maybe he should stop
And close his laptop

Breathe, go take a walk
Sleep under an oak
Come back merrier
Make this board better

Awful

/horror/ poetry anyone?

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'Versify beyond thy grave'
Said the voice of hills and lakes
When I walked around my hood
Once a sneed (presently snood)

When I strode all ladies glanced
Gods have risen and they danced
They were drinking holy mead
'What a snood!' (formerly sneed)

When the midday's in its heat
Cloaked with distant shadows I'm
Learning secrets of my breed
Got it deep right from the slime

user you're the loser and that's a fact
Worse than the stinky rat that I found out back
You need take a shower cause you stink like poop
Make sure while you're in there you wipe that downstairs hoop
All your loved ones huddle up away from you and call you a freak
Strangers in public stand back 15 feet from you to get away from the reek

I look up at my love from her fading graces
And a question turns in my mind
Jumping and kicking at the seems, ‘til it erupts
“What makes this different, what makes this real?”
And to my discomfort she responds with just what I’d imagined
“Because you’re here and so am I; What’s real is what’s here”
I then protested “That’s weak! We need more!”
And my love had no response

I love it. Literally blown away. No notes

As eyelashes flutter
The Magician's spell
I to myself mutter
Imagine the smell

bump

Next one

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When disillusion runs amok the court
And true intentions are hidden in verse,
The fairer seen frail, no reason or thought;
Yet guilt prevails in the mind for the worse;
As twilight haze and honour descends fast,
Hurt maidens sink under love songs withdrawn;
With envy enraged, a cut to the past
Will leave spring bloody and finally gone
Less fair by fair lie maidens by rivers:
As fledgling morning wanes, an endless ring;
Chaste nymphs unspoiled, their joie de vivre;
Will blossom's branding tarnish future spring?
And through times of faith, this verse will stand true,
Time’s hand stays aside as the fair drown blue.

nice flow in the first stanza, second is weaker, third is weakest, fourth is nice; generally nice but the middle needs work
i hate the repetition in this, if the feeling you're trying to encapsulate is that your circular love has been marinating for decades while you stare at a figure that you meant in high school then you got the feeling perfect but the poem still seems... heavy footed
the difference in meter per line with harsher stresses is really offputting in this plus the initial 4 lines just seem bad together, the first two together are almost playful in a morbid sort of way, the second two just seem hammed in there for some descriptive language
first line is the weirdest thing i've ever read/heard
is the whole premise really just a person dreaming of the things she will miss when she leaves? if so, be more extravagant with your writing
idk if this was meant to be better than the one you're replying to lol because it's honestly worse
time to become a slam poet, vro
I wrote this a while back lmk what you think

the sun doesnt sleep, no more
honeyed chumps, choked or
drowned; bathed in basin
bare, a travelling salesman -
little Lucy: danced, squared, and
downed.

Flesh echo, so dear, forgotten
in blue, Turn Back Time and
MEMORIZE; touch, taste
the night dancer - no haste -
in barren, cold, dark, Lucy
dies.

The clouds dont exist, no more
blue stars, stock in store, or
return - chumps cheer. He wept -
congregation: dear child, the best
for poor moon, left lonely, and Lucy to
burn

>As we watch the sons of Adam
>turned to ash by suns of atom.
Very nice. The rest is bad. Using rhyme with no sense of metre is very awkward.

bymp

Wow i feel so gay here

If a syllable write on wood
Can a syllable surround by sparks
If a syllable can cry for sound
Does a syllable die for marks

Page 10 bump

excerpt from my play with working title: The Incel's Opera, any advice on writing narrative verse?

he wastes no time on roastie sluts
whose online posts are mostly butts
each evening spends he lifting weights
and seething over chicks he hates

>each evening spends he lifting weights
Is that meant to be English?

>he spends no time on roasties but spends all his time seething about them
Why are incels so dumb?

A word invert and filtered be the ESL
That's one of many questions I'll explore in the play

pls

It's gonna be like The Pilgrim's Progress in that the characters are named after their archetypes, e,g, Coomer, Simp and Chud. Writing the Simp parts is most difficult, but I'm watching three to four hours of booktuber content a day to get in the right frame of mind for it.

Twilled Wave

Questions to the integrity of my sentimentality,
as a spontaneous personal ritual
foments inspiration
to maintain a belief

So I undertake your name.
You were given the name of a type of ocean wave

Striving for deep satiation
what remained
was a moment-by-moment striation
of willpower
striving after more willpower to gain

undeniable permanence.

Would make a good song lyric.

I once met a woman
Beautiful as the sky
Of a sweet July
I loved her

I once met a woman
But she didn’t meet me
Had another guy
I hated her

I once met a woman
Dead below me
Blood in the sheet
Now I am free

Don't like it. Postmodernism is not poetry.

Great thematic writing
Not sure the point of this

Something strangely alluring
Funfair in a carpark
We walk around the perimeter
I think about all the colliding sounds
Alex likes the thrill of the motions
Whilst I cannot withdraw my mind
From the cheap short lasted thrill

Walk through into the people
We focus on the food stall
For me it is my thrill
Hotdog is my choice
In the middle of the energy
I move like a quiet drifting entity

The shapes and fun to be had
Whilst I just sit and watch from outside
I am detached
My mind is detached
Lights detached watch attached
Exhilaration detached Meaning

why not?

Too hollow to be art.

Not that guy but postmodernism isn't hollow, it's actually the antithesis of hollow for it rejects any objective specifications of itself

>i hate the repetition in this, if the feeling you're trying to encapsulate is that your circular love has been marinating for decades while you stare at a figure that you meant in high school then you got the feeling perfect but the poem still seems... heavy footed
>i hate the repetition in this
user, it's literally a villanelle.

Sure buddy

bump

ass

Love it, a clear and romantic thought.
It's almost good, just feels like you ran out of patience towards the end. I like the "It's the hand that we've been dealt" line.
This is not horror, this is maximalist youth or mediocre metal lyrics at best. For it to become horror you need to remove the spectacle and add substance instead. The flashy visuals quickly lose their appeal when they're not bound to human perception. It reminds me of the stuff I wrote when I was like 15 and a big fan of Cradle of Filth, the similarity is uncanny. If you want to do horror, look up to stuff like The Carol of the Old Ones.

ESL here, this is a translation from my original.

My bones grow accrete with the plain of the walls,
Anguish darkens my image like murk.
Thorn wreath on a crow; down from pale icons falls
Empty gaze of its orbits' vile smirk.

Fragile edge of the ceaseless abidance of days
Corrodes on the needle's spearhead —
This endeavor behoved my own vigor to raise,
Not death's ebon dart in its stead.

It immerses my thoughts, one after the other,
Into baneful and poisonous dark;
It heats but a painting of hearth now rather
With a heart faded as dry birch bark.

And even if question still could be recalled,
The answer could never be heard,
After all, you're locked up wherever you go,
And the answer itself is interred.

Only, the end is nigh, the thread's growing thin,
It is Pluto himself at the helm.
Well, there's still time to light up, since my kin
Can not ever escape this ship's realm.

I hear my soul going blind drop by drop
And yet still I just can not awake.
The rats in the walls on the other shore's top
Meanwhile hunger for my blood, and ache.

voca.ro/11C9JXKtYpaH

Your first two lines don't form a complete sentence, what is happening as we watch the sons of Adam turned to ash by suns of atom?
>Watching through a lens of glass
You've already established watching as the action in the previous clause, no need to repeat it here. Delete that period from the previous line and have it flow as
>turned to ash by suns of atom
>through a lens of glass
And you can modify this line to fit metrically if you choose, or you can try to play around with the meter.
>walled off by a moving fence of brass,
This is a good image.
>whizzing by with the speed of sound.
What or who is performing this action? The sons of Adam?
>Tremors tear our feet off the ground.
Okay. You need to work on your punctuation, otherwise your words are illogical.
>Its the hand that we've been dealt,
>by the ice caps we've seen melt.
This is good. Change "seen" to "watch" and delete that period.
>For the forests we have burned,
>into monsters we have turned.
Fix your punctuation.
>Heaven blocked by the orange tinted sky,
Nice.
>and the acid rain which we've made it cry.
This construction is clunky, work on it.
There is a meter. All language has meter.

Absolutely based, it makes me happy to see people get the hip hop influence.