Thread 24683228

Post your own work and critique others. Or just talk about poetry more generally and share poems you like.

First poem I've ever written, 2 days ago, how is this:

Chickens running round the yard,
Pecking near my feet,
The sun meets the horizon,
And voices sound from the street.

Roses are red
Life is worthless
I want to die
So very bad

>>24683228 (OP)
In the seven seas I will seek
for the deepest thought and the purest belief
until I've learned to fish for every day
and have stopped drowning in the storm that betrayed me

(it kinda rhymes in ny language)

Per
Oty

>>24683228 (OP)
There's two poems that I always loved. Road ahead and behind from baseball player george moriarty. It really gives that topsport mentality. It really applies to anything that takes perseverance and where success isn't a certainty.

>Sometimes I think the fates must
>Grin as we denounce and insist
>The only reason we can’t win
>Is the fates themselves that miss

>Yet there lives on the ancient claim
>We win or lose within ourselves
>The shining trophies on our shelves
>Can never win tomorrow’s game
>You and I know deeper down
>There’s always a chance to win the crown

>But when we fail to give our best
>We simply haven’t met the test
>Of giving all, and saving none
>Until the game is really won

>Of showing what is meant by grit
>Of fighting on when others quit
>Of playing through, not letting up
>It’s bearing down that wins the cup
>Of taking it and taking more
>Until we gain the winning score

>Of dreaming there’s a goal ahead
>Of hoping when our dreams are dead
>Of praying when our hopes have fled
>Yet losing, not afraid to fall
>If bravely, we have given all

>For who can ask more of a man
>Than giving all within his span
>Giving all, it seems to me
>Is not so far from victory

>And so the Fates are seldom wrong
>No matter how they twist and wind
>It is you and I who make our fates
>We open up or close the gates
>On the road ahead or the road behind

Though personally I think it should just be from "when we fail..." to "...far from victory".

I also like Kipling's "the rabbi's song", pic related.

Let me know what you guys think about them.

>>24683332
This isn’t a place for you to shill your retarded Substack. Either post your poems directly in the thread or fuck off.

first part of a wip tribute to old school pastoral poetry. alexander pope, virgil's eclogues, things of that nature.

>Now Dionoda, couched within the fold
>Where thistles bloomed, and fleecy she-goats strolled,
>Woke up; drunk gods the summer sunlight shed,
>Deep she had slept upon her natural bed,
>The empty wineskin in her one hand clasped,
>The other o'er her aching eyes she cast.
>Why feels she so amiss beneath this vale?
>Its tufts of thistle and its she-goats pale,
>The dawning sun which gods above provide,
>Nor touched her heart, nor eased the dread inside.
>For she had dreamt (and goatherds trust such signs),
>As she stepped slowly through those unknown pines,
>Across the path a mangled goat-corpse lay,
>A bloody head it raised, and seemed to say:
>'Goatherd, attend. The primal powers bid
>That I inform you what the Fates had hid.
>See my red fur; my downy throat cut through
>Will seem like mercy when they're through with you.

The soft summer sun dripped through
the trees, carried on a western breeze
that wandered the forest like a sigh.
I crossed rivers, wrestled bears,
roamed until the light grew vague.

The eventide sky darkened,
the forest's edge unraveling wide.
A cacophony shattered the quiet
gasoline fumes, engines roaring,
headlights piercing the fringe of town.

And there, I stood all alone.

A haiku.

Night clear as vodka --
From the street a woman's voice
Warbles through the air.

mash potatoes
apple sauce
buttery...biscuits

and i get lost


:DDDD

bump

>>24684785
Kill yourself.

>>24683228 (OP)
I do not know how
to write poetry
how sad, I cry now

i'm literally addicted to writing 18thc. pastoral poetry. i like that you can name your shepherds basically whatever you want as long as it sounds sufficiently rustic or mediterranean. it feels like naming sims:

When Applepip, fresh from the hunt, came down
The sleek green slope which waving poplars crown,
And on the dewy grass had dropped the deer,
He saw Mirtazapine approaching near;
A long forgotten friend! Mirtazapine
Spoke softly thus, while he remained unseen:
'Nine summers now, innumerable nights
Alone I've spurned our pastoral delights,
Forsook our groves where shepherdesses dance,
And swains their honour and their virtue chance.
So have I hidden on this mountain side
Since cruèl Iphigenia my love denied.'

>>24684868
one cool technique from this era of poetry was to occasionally switch to a line of six stresses instead of five. they didn't do it regularly, the point was to deploy it as a neat surprising effect at the right moment.

>>24684868
>Mirtazapine
>18th C pastoral
Wat

>>24684971
welcome to the postmodern era my brother

>>24684978
Oh sorry
*(H)wat

Interesting. People will post poetry, but have little comment on it.

I often have the impression that even people that enjoy poetry, care little for poetry in general. Why is that?

>>24685548
A lot of the thread is for critique, and for critique, very few poems fall into the "needs work and needs a reply" category. Most fall into the "unsalvageable" and "stet" categories
Sometimes anons write discursive essays on particular forms, but most of the thread is generally OC poetry crit

>>24683298
How's it run in your language?

>>24684315
"Clear as vodka" is an interesting image, though I'm not sure how to interpret it. I'm guessing it means stinging cold, like the stinging, burning feeling of vodka as it goes down your throat, but that's just my guess (also since there would be no kigo otherwise)

Fuck
My
Family

>>24683228 (OP)
battymon fi dead
kill all single moms
allahu akbar

>>24683228 (OP)
Peroty?

>>24683228 (OP)
A specter invades a nightly retreat,
to a land of lost wants and thoughts incomplete.
Upon baren soil i stand, bewildered at the sight
of a pale apparition shining bright, and bold she stood
Towering againts the ocean dark sky.

Her eyes beamed upon my soul
Inquiring on days of old
of when her hands i held, her
lips i felt, and soul i explored
Her voice trickled down to my ears
Questioning decisions made over the years
The siren's song closed with a gong
asking if i'm happy to be where i belong

To her i say "tis' futile to lie
for you've seen the truth, in the depths of my eye
why ponder upon a question, if the answer is known?
tis' not fair to torment a soul, foul as it is,
with questions such as those. But here i present,
For your ears to hear, the sorrow of loss
of a lover held dear."

On her ears befell my woes and fears
an empty vessel drowning in tears
my words came to a stop, and from her a faint smile
then she whispered, "sweet child,
remember not what we had, nor what we could have been.
Seek instead for a fire within, for i see your ember fading,
your mind waning, and your soul wandering.
I pray the Sun grant you Strength to bare
A world lost to ambition and despair."

Her Revelations Ceased, The Specter fades into the evanescent blue.
No more real than memory, yet eternally true.
A Fire grew to the west, on the lush green grass of the Prairie,
A glimmer darted into the Moon's domain,
in rebellion against the night's tyranny.

>>24686396
In de zeven zeeen zal ik zoeken
naar de diepste waarheid
en het zuiverste geloof

tot ik elke dag heb leren vissen
en niet meer verdrink
in de storm die mij bedroog


I typed it into a Nokia phone while on a bike when I was 15. I think it's the only thing I've written that felt worth preserving. I sent it to my mother. She is pisces (vissen). She also is the storm. She liked it. I don't think she got it. Though I don't think I did back then, either.

>>24684315
>>24686403
I interpreted it as the night being warbled too by drunks, so both clear and not clear, in the way wodka makes people blurry, even if itself it is clear.

>>24685703
Isn't it sometimes worth pointing out which of the two it is and why? It's the clash of perspectives that makes communication interesting, isn't it?

I wandered alone through the crumbling stone.
A shadow that roams.
My people are gone, yet my spirit lives on.
All that remains is empty, a stain.
In the streets, in the towns all the people are brown.
An Empire in rubble, no fighting, no struggle.
All that's left of Old England; a puddle.

Sleeper

Shimmer and awake my love,
the surf too cold for waking.
Manic from the high dream,
the dreaming too bold to touch.
You the arbiter, lovely and ever-fair
have seen my swelling fruits.

The seeming to hold so tender
and the cold lies bitter on the ground.

And the cold lies bitter on the ground.

>>24688397
I don't get the "my spirit lives on". I don't know why, but that bit seems out of sync with the rest of it. Lovely last 2 lines though.

>>24688557
>You the arbiter, lovely and ever-fair
have seen my swelling fruits.

She saw your balls?

>>24684001
This is very good; your imagery is vibrant. You say its a work in progress. Is there anywhere or any way I can read your other work? This excerpt is one of my favorite snippets of poetry I've seen on /lit/ in years.

>>24688133
>Isn't it sometimes worth pointing out which of the two it is and why
Yes, but not as often as your hopes may rest on

>>24688807
thanks man, emboldening words. i was pleased with that one myself. if i manage to turn it into a longer poem with a proper narrative i'll be sure to post it here (for i have no other audience).

Here is my poem

Iron men and iron law,
March in step towards war,
Hide the feelings deep inside,
The weeping anima you must hide,
Repress that dream with total war,
You'll keep it from the door,
Think of it not, march on still,
Its time to feel your iron will,
Suppress the truth, march now,
Never to weakness will you bow,
You can do it, don't let it win,
Throw that dream into the bin,
Don't look in mirrors, that will remind,
And show you of your face unkind,
Smash the glass out from the frame,
To those feelings you must not cave,
Cry it out, then wipe the tears,
It won't work anyway with your years,
The bones have fused, so march on,
To the beating of the drum,
Think not, lest a thought stray in,
And bounce around like made of tin,
Muscle and might, ready to fight,
Do not ever think about flight,
You can do it, I believe in you,
I beat the thoughts, so can you

>>24683283
Me too anon
>>24683236
I like it

the blood flows from the fingers
to the mark of the quill:
'sterile', i tell myself,
as i call myself to forget,
or call myself-turned wise of will.
but still, what of love?
when the blood flows from the fingers,
that does not forget you still?

ni-na-ni-no
no-na-no-nigger
You might find this racist
But it was an intentional trigger

In the courtyard, ghosts,
chickens wander, mutilated,
their feathers like lost
pages from a novel no one
finished, abandoned.

>>24684133
Dope. Nice job.
Perhaps consider punctuation at the end of this:
>A cacophony shattered the quiet
Semicolon or caesura would do it. Depends on how fancy you are feeling, I suppose.

>>24687841
You've got something there. Just feels like it's 75-80% done. Perhaps consider tightening up the beats, so as to make it more rhythmic, all the way through. Reading it out loud helps a lot with that, if you felt inclined to give it a crack. There are some nice lines there. Now you just have to polish her up, so she really shines bright as can be. Nice job so far. Keep it up!

>>24690367
Two more lines and this could be a banger (it's very close already). Also, I would move "but still" up one line so:

Or call myself turned wise of will--but still.
What of love?

Or move "what of love" down one line, like:

Or call myself turned wise of will.
But still,
What of love?

Real close on this one though. Nice job!

>>24683236
the transition from the animals round your feet (zoomed in, mundane, busy) to the sun and the horizon (zoomed out cosmic, still) is very nice.

>>24683300
would be a good pseudonym: check out the latest book of poems by the mysterious Per Oty.

>>24684133
'wrestled bears' genuinely made me smile - unexpected yet fitting.

>>24684315
'clear as vodka' - effective. i guess because it draws on the idea of clear night air as something pure while undermining the idea of it as something healthy. it's pure, but in the same way ethanol is pure.

>>24685548
be the change you want to see in the world.

>>24687841
last stanza is my favourite. the whole thing reminded me of keats's fall of hyperion, but the end especially.

>>24688126
i would put this into google translate but i'm afraid it won't be as good as your backstory made me hope it is.

>>24688397
is this what our beautifully revitalised culture will be under the coming farage regime, nationalist poems written by people who clearly haven't read much english literature?

>>24688557
the repetition at the end feels weak. 'the arbiter' is an interesting role for a lover, that surprised me, but you didn't develop the idea, and instead got goofy with your swelling fruits.

>>24690094
i think you could condense this into a poem half the size and it would be twice as good. think of it as brutal military efficiency.

>>24690367
'but still, what of love?' is Poetic in a way i think should be avoided. i liked 'sterile', i like the idea of the poet repeating it to themselves like a command or an incantation or wish.

>>24691500
In Oklahoma,
Bonnie and Josie,
Dressed in calico,
Danced around a stump.
They cried,
"Ohoyaho,
Ohoo"

>>24691595
'ghosts, / chickens' is how a linebreak is done.

>>24692070
>i would put this into google translate but i'm afraid it won't be as good as your backstory made me hope it is.

Accurate. It's like modern art in that way.

No more if theres a tomorrow
Wherever you go I follow

Someday
Some nights

I want to win my cities poetry comp this year. any advice for writing poetry that appeals to the people?

>>24692774
Something pandering to progressive politics, probably. And definitely don't have any meter or rhyme scheme, except perhaps a loose one.

>>24692777
I can see that from last years winners. Its tough writing like that. I guess I need to practice being emotional and self-centered. Its tough.

>>24692777
Most of the attempts they get at meter and rhyme are probably shoehorned or doggerel, you might have a chance if you can actually pull it off well.

He hasn't gone outside in 40 hours
He keeps track of time by taking showers
Was it for this his mother loved him so
Making footprints for him in the snow

>>24684001
>>24684868
Entertaining pastiche

>>24688557
I think this would be better:

Manic from the high dream,
the dreaming too bold to touch.
You the arbiter, lovely and ever-fair
have seen my swelling fruits.
The seeming to hold so tender
and the cold lies bitter on the ground.

>>24692827
Not very good, but I like "cancel the lights."

>>24683228 (OP)
I'm not a poet, and it sure that it shows. But I wrote this after an anatomy lab in my medical school

A once vibrant temple, held still in time
Fingers run across the stones
Scars and wounds yield a silent voice
It speaks across an endless void
"I was here, let me show you"

>>24691816
>>>24687841(You)
>You've got something there. Just feels like it's 75-80% done. Perhaps consider tightening up the beats, so as to make it more rhythmic, all the way through. Reading it out loud helps a lot with that, if you felt inclined to give it a crack. There are some nice lines there. Now you just have to polish her up, so she really shines bright as can be. Nice job so far. Keep it up!

Thanks for the Input Anon! Its my first time writing poetry in English. Truth be told its the first time I've written a poem in the past 6 years. All my previous poems were written in Indonesian, and their hopelessly juvenile. I still think my current writings to be so too.

But i agree it doesn't flow as well as i want it to. I will work on it more, I kind have neglected it since its creation a few months back.

>>24692070
>>>24687841(You)
>last stanza is my favourite. the whole thing reminded me of keats's fall of hyperion, but the end especially.

I'm glad you like that last stanza anon, although i don't particularly remember what made me write what did.

This may come as a surprise but i don't really read a lot of poetry and have not read any works by Keats. All i have as far as poetry in my collection of books are Dover editions of Byron and Wordsworth.
Anyway i wanted to thank you anons, i really doubted that anyone would care to give input or even like my poetry.

>>24691816
>>>24687841 (You)(You)
>You've got something there. Just feels like it's 75-80% done. Perhaps consider tightening up the beats, so as to make it more rhythmic, all the way through. Reading it out loud helps a lot with that, if you felt inclined to give it a crack. There are some nice lines there. Now you just have to polish her up, so she really shines bright as can be. Nice job so far. Keep it up!

Thanks for the Input Anon! Its my first time writing poetry in English. Truth be told its the first time I've written a poem in the past 6 years. All my previous poems were written in Indonesian, and their hopelessly juvenile. I still think my current writings to be so too.

But i agree it doesn't flow as well as i want it to. I will work on it more, I kind have neglected it since its creation a few months back.

>>24692070
>>>24687841 (You)(You)
>last stanza is my favourite. the whole thing reminded me of keats's fall of hyperion, but the end especially.

I'm glad you like that last stanza anon, although i don't particularly remember what made me write what i did.

This may come as a surprise but i don't really read a lot of poetry and have not read any works by Keats. All i have as far as poetry in my collection of books are Dover editions of Byron and Wordsworth.
Anyway i wanted to thank you anons, i really doubted that anyone would care to give input or even like my poetry.

I come to every thread,
a harbinger of death,
to mark it with my lead-
-en company and steal their precious breath.

These sneeds seem lazy
they won't even rhyme
alas, too hazy,
like souls who have arrived

at some erroneous platform
in a small and obscure town,
to stumble, to approve the norm:
yes, poetry remains forever down.

As rain is beating on the windowsill
your posts keep sinking down the drain–
an awful archive's mouth of grinding mill
that whirls inside the paradox-enchanted brain

of a creature
who's sleeping
in the void

you might not see it – it is seeing you:
a thought that flashes in the night like asteroid,
and reckless posting falls out like the dew.

>>24692070
*farts in face*

>>24692070
O' Great arbiter of poetry
I beg thee cast down thyne mass reply upon me

I cry for hands lost in quiet corridors,
hands lost in quiet, hands swallowed by shadows,
hands that once walked among villages and wind,
shadows that devour.

She got Corteiz on her chest I said miss just free up the twins in Alcatraz