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Zack_Gochuck posted:Thanks for the honest critique, guys. I think this one may be headed to the scrap heap. Don't forget that the best revision is often rewriting. This is just to say that I'd never suggest a poet trash anything. Just put it in that drawer with all the other unrealized ideas. You may find yourself looking for something that sounds just like "child's sallow" in ten years and, hey, look at that
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Jun 30, 2013 11:34
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This is the first poem I've written in a long time, about some personal subject matter (family discord). I was very emotional when I wrote it so it makes sense to me in that context, but I'd like some unbiased perspective on whether the language works or not. At the Gates some massacre swelled. searing prompted a hard blink downwards and the confluence washed over my feet. and when i drew breath, i spilled also. at that sound, willed that i could hide and time bent at its waist. spill swallowing spill. and those strained barks snapping at air - i reached to tuck the bleeding voices behind the door. the pave wound to the road and thought it took fright but it had mistook the shallow gasps the seep cast over my shadow. the stilted beck of space compelled to testify before the gate in these striped pyjamas that the witnesses all attended blind. the ends of my tether red with strain i step around the halo of lights, one by one into the bowed arms of the stillness.
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Jul 1, 2013 04:02
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Bird Priest posted:This is the first poem I've written in a long time, about some personal subject matter (family discord). I was very emotional when I wrote it so it makes sense to me in that context, but I'd like some unbiased perspective on whether the language works or not. Hey I think this is a pretty good draft. The images are rich and emotionally complicated. However, I do think you've written around the scene and the subject a bit, maybe because you have all the contextual knowledge in your head or maybe because you're uncomfortable writing the bare fact of what's going on. This makes a lot of the poem feel like a metaphor without antecedent, signifier without the signified, etc. If you calm that down and give us more of the undecorated scene, I think you'll be closer to having a very strong poem. Maybe give this poem a read to see what I'm talking about.
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Jul 1, 2013 15:32
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Why didn't I find this thread years ago? It's been too long since I've been in a workshop. It's probably not the smartest move of me to try to critique poetry at three in the morning, so apologizes in advance if I come off as crazy. deptstoremook posted:And I just got done writing a set of 10 poems. There is a contest whose deadline is this Friday, and instead of dredging up one of my old sequences I decided to be masochistic about the process and make a new one. I won't post the whole thing, it's about 400 lines all told, but here's the introductory poem. The title of the set is Such Tapestries the Comets Weave Alone. Blank verse with various formal tricks. It looks a bit more elegant in the word processor. I am a total sucker for poems with non-traditional structures like this. Being able to read both down along the columns and straight across and get coherent thoughts both ways is great. I don't know if the repeat of 'in many ways' is necessary though. With just this to go on, it doesn't feel poignant enough to me to warrant ruminating over, and so it's just kind of duplicated information. At first I would have gone so far to say that I wasn't sure what that first line was doing at all, but the previous talk about it clueing the reader in on how you can reader the poem feels true to me, and I can see that now. Otherwise, I like the imagery– very liquid, I get the feeling of a dark fast-flowing river, tense and chaotic. Medoken posted:[Current Events, the poem] I think that I get that the 'it' before the start of the first section is supposed to feed back into the last line of the third section but it still feels a little too disconnected from the rest of the poem to me. I dunno. Maybe it's just a personal thing, but after reading the whole poem a couple of times now I feel like I'm getting the impression the poem is being fit into the space between 'it' and 'rolls in.' But then again, the structure of the poem as is, doesn't reflect that, so maybe I'm wildly off base as to what you're going for here. I find the way you've structured things to be very interesting, it kind of breaks the poem into a melding of min-poems and I think I see what you're trying to do with that to meld this mess of different topics together, and show how they're not all that unrelated. Is that right? I think my biggest issue is that the whole section II feels like it's just pounding in the point the first section was trying to get at, and it detracts from the elegance of it, like you're really showing your hand when you don't need to. I really like the sound of 'stampede calls the storm' and just the way that phrase feels, but I can't for the life of me shake the feeling like I've heard that phrase somewhere before and it's going to bother me the rest of the night. Bird Priest posted:This is the first poem I've written in a long time, about some personal subject matter (family discord). I was very emotional when I wrote it so it makes sense to me in that context, but I'd like some unbiased perspective on whether the language works or not. I don't have much to say except to agree with Bachelard rear end's assessment. Personal, emotional crap is a popular writing subject of mine, and I can sympthize with wanting to write about something but not wanting to write about something, if that makes sense. Picking out at least a single physical moment in time to root the emotional core of the poem in, similar to what I think Bachelard rear end is suggesting should help you keep your reading from drifting away in a fog of contextless emotion. Edit: gently caress it, I'll post some of my own crappy poetry. Here's one I haven't gotten much feedback on yet. I'm probably a little too in love with rhythm and rhyme with not enough practice just yet. code:AriadneThread fucked around with this message at 08:50 on Jul 2, 2013 |
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Jul 2, 2013 08:28
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AriadneThread posted:
I appreciate your willingness to write in some kind of form, but I'm having some difficulty with the "why" of the decision to rhyme (besides, of course, that you wanted to). In the best rhyming poems, the rhymes work in a way that that either intensifies the action, grants new or enhanced meaning, or generates an argument - what a lot of poetry people might call a "hinge." Just look at the table of contents to Majorie Perloff's "Rhyme and Meaning in the Poetry of Yeats" and you'll see some examples of what I mean. You might pick that book up at the library or your favorite bookstore. I've found it really interesting. Here, too, is one of the more obvious Yeats poems for talking about this kind of thing, but it being obvious doesn't make it less great. As for the other formal gestures, I get the feeling that the number of lines in each stanza is dictated by how many rhymes you could come up with and twist so that they sort of fit before moving on to the next stanza. This generates a clunking movement throughout, which isn't helped too much by the literal actions of the poem getting overshadowed by the volume of the rhymes. I don't like the term "loud" when talking about gestures in poems, but it's overused for a reason I guess. Also, some of the details seem present in service of the rhyme, which clouds the connective tissue between the images even further. Poems in form are hard, but form alone won't carry anything very far. I can glean what's important and use it to piece together the same kind of emotional core you mentioned in your post, but I find that the remaining detritus takes away from it. This isn't to say the poem should be shorter, but perhaps fuller and more tightly contained. Take a look at some other forms and gently caress around in them. Villanelles are cool.
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Jul 2, 2013 17:31
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Thanks for the feedback! Some stuff like the inconsistent number of lines per stanza is more a causality of this being a first draft, but that doesn't make your point any less right. I definitely prefer to focus on the feel and flow of a poem over the literal content, which is where that loudness and the problems with the imagery are probably coming from. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't work on making that side of things stronger, certainly. Also, that's a good thought about using form and rhyme and I'll have to look into the book you suggested, which shouldn't be hard because I love Yeats. When I was at college no one else was particularly interested in non-free form poetry or using rhyme so I'm still in the process of feeling out resources and role models, so thanks for the advice!
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Jul 2, 2013 17:59
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Okay, I think I have a great concept but it can't be finished can it? Something tells me I'm going to finagle this into my elder years. I'd like say a toast: to my bowels they were with me from the very beginning and I think it's gunna be them that get me in the end. they helped to push my work out when it needed to be pushed. they kept things shut in when things needed to be shut in. God knows, though I figure He'd rather forget, what horrors I subjected them to but how was I to know that everything I consumed in life would turn out like this just another bit of foulness not much different from that of anyone else the hook being of course that I, like everyone, will always prefer the pallid scent of my own above all others I think everyone will enjoy um, playing, with this.
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Jul 3, 2013 06:16
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I have been writing for several years, but never had an interest in poetry. This girl I'm seeing recently turned me onto such things, and a few days ago I decided to try and write a poem. I am starting at the beginning. Please be harsh. Flies. Never before has there been a mass grave so close to my food. Troughs of dead in the restaurant sill. Black piles of wet soot. Flecks of glass-bottle green. Given the task to dispose of the bodies, I am not sure I have enough time to be respectful. I use a cloth to remove them like grout-gunk, but stop when their bodies don’t crush as much as I suppose I’d like. So many avatars of life, literally swept away before closing. What is the draw of this spot? Lovely enough to wade through their own dead. Perhaps I should learn from them. Spend more time in our cemeteries. Now every fly that I brush away, over my food, and on his way, is heading to re-dirty my sill, I imagine. Chasing them has lost all significance. “I’ll see you later.”
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Jul 4, 2013 20:07
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Matlack Radio posted:I have been writing for several years, but never had an interest in poetry. This girl I'm seeing recently turned me onto such things, and a few days ago I decided to try and write a poem. I am starting at the beginning. Please be harsh. When you say she turned you on, what does she have you reading? All told, this isn't too bad. You suffer from the same thing a lot of poets do, which is overusing "___ of ___" to the point where the poem gets slogged down by its own convention that it's hard to read. Troughs of piles of flecks of avatars of draw of And with that the establishing moments of your poem are too clunky to prepare me for "spend more time in our cemeteries," which could be a great line. "lost all significance" I mean come on. You've shown me already that you can do better than that. Don't sum up that which you can show in a scene with the same number of words. And you can. That said, for whatever reason you're looking into poetry, I hope you stick around. Check out Frank O'Hara. I think you'd like him. Gaston Bachelard fucked around with this message at 06:30 on Jul 6, 2013 |
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Jul 6, 2013 06:28
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Bachelard rear end posted:When you say she turned you on, what does she have you reading? I found Charles Simic by myself, who I adore. Bachelard rear end posted:Various suggestions.
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Jul 6, 2013 14:44
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Matlack Radio posted:I have been writing for several years, but never had an interest in poetry. This girl I'm seeing recently turned me onto such things, and a few days ago I decided to try and write a poem. I am starting at the beginning. Please be harsh. Do you have a sense of what you want to get out of poetry or what you want to put in it? I ask, because this is pretty typical of a lot of poetry I see and it really bugs me: it's you writing a poem telling the story of you thinking the thought that became the poem instead of just presenting the image and letting the reader have the experience (whatever it is). Poetry, of course, can have a point. It can sell the point pretty hard. But look over the poems of the poets you admire - how often do they tell they story of them seeing the image that inspired them to write the poem? Probably pretty rarely. Much more likely, they present the image or, alternatively, just tell the story through poetry. Matlack Radio posted:
That right there is the poem. That's the stuff without you in it. They also happen to be the only lines that aren't slack. Every word is doing work. (I like "grout-gunk" too). cda fucked around with this message at 03:59 on Jul 7, 2013 |
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Jul 7, 2013 03:52
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I wonder if this is too heavy-handed. Chapel Weathervane Born in the Revolution, a brother of the bell, He spins straight through the funerals, the wars, the stormy spells. With every shift he offers up a tinny little shriek. Above the preacher and the blessed he turns the other cheek. They hear how Jesus saved the lost, the ignorant, the ill. His pulpit swings. He scatters out The Sermon of Weak Will: "I tremble for the choice you've made: Men can be great and wild, or though forged from cannon-iron, melted into something mild."
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Jul 7, 2013 03:58
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cda posted:I wonder if this is too heavy-handed. I get a little lost in the poem's pronouns, and I don't think it's poor reading to suggest that the antecedents are shaky. For example, I'm assuming that "they" is "the blessed," but because there's some remove to the action (we have to piece together who is speaking and who is hearing) there's a fair amount lost in translation, if you will. Verbs, too, and I think working out the pronouns could help, need some sorting. "He" spins and shifts, but "his" (the preacher, I'm assuming) pulpit swings and "HE" (again, the preacher, right?) scatters... Do you see where I'm having some difficulty here? In a formal poem, sound matters so much, and while the similar sounds of the verbs generates an interesting sameness, symbiosis if we're feeling metaphorical (haaa), I think it would be more effective with a little more clarity and variety throughout the sentences. I've posted before that I don't like the term "heavy-handed." Mostly I think it's a poo poo criticism because it's not actually pinpointing a problem. However, I do think "turns the other cheek" feels obvious and easy, not to mention cliche, and subservient to the rhyme scheme - so if that's what you mean... yes? wild/iron/mild is feels similar, and in some way approximations of what the poem wants to be saying. Just feels reheated to me. Other than that, I think it's pretty all right. Some of the rhymes are pretty cool and the thing ~sounds~ nice enough. From your crit you sound like you know what you're doing, but I can't resist suggesting poets to everybody anyway. Philip Larkin, if you haven't read him already. And EVERYONE needs a copy of the collected Wallace Stevens on their bedside table. 
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Jul 7, 2013 23:26
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 Poetry Thread Contest Hey guys, I want to breathe some life into this thread. I'm offering a $10 prize to the best poem posted here before Friday 11:59pm EST, judged by me, as long as at least 5 poems have been posted. If we can keep up the rhythm, we'll have other goon judges. There are no requirements, I'll read whatever you've got. Please do post your poems. I'll give feedback on every poem. Mods, if I'm betraying something or stepping on any toes, let me know please. EDIT: 5 poems means 5 different goon poets. EDIT2: SurreptitiousMuffin, if you as the OP take issue, I'll back down, but I think you get what I'm on about Gaston Bachelard fucked around with this message at 06:37 on Jul 8, 2013 |
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Jul 8, 2013 06:14
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Can we submit multiple poems? I write the dorkiest poo poo but it makes my girlfriend smile and that's basically the only metric I care about. i love you like sand dollars love the tide like swallows love the cliffs i love you like crabs love calcium like barnacles love ships like kelp love rocks i love you like the moon loves the horizon like odysseus loves the ocean
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Jul 8, 2013 23:20
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Sure let's call it up to 3. Gotta be 5 different poets still. I'm sure errybody is feverishly working on their submissions now.
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Jul 9, 2013 00:22
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Bachelard rear end posted:I get a little lost in the poem's pronouns, and I don't think it's poor reading to suggest that the antecedents are shaky. For example, I'm assuming that "they" is "the blessed," but because there's some remove to the action (we have to piece together who is speaking and who is hearing) there's a fair amount lost in translation, if you will. Thanks for the feedback! The "he" is supposed to be the weathervane throughout, but I see that the change of focus to the parishioners in stanzas 2 & 3 makes that uncertain. I love me some Wallace Stevens and back in the day memorized some of his poems (Ideas of Order at Key West, Peter Quince at the Clavier). Also wrote at length about "The Rabbit as King of the Ghosts" for my college undergraduate thesis. I wouldn't even presume to try and do what he's able to do. Larkin is more my speed as far as aspirations go, though it's not like I'm anywhere in his ballpark either. But at least it seems theoretically achievable Bachelard rear end posted:
Cool. I'll do this. I would love if this thread picked up. I don't have the time to write, read, and crit that I used to have, but back in the day I got a lot out of being part of an online poetry community and would be happy if one got going here.
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Jul 9, 2013 20:24
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Here's my entry. Certainty Crabs and coals both have a scuttle and self-destruction comes at a problem sideways, brassing its claw about. Quick, it carries its heart to the open fire and can't bring itself to look. No one can have it, -- that's the point -- this light that goes lightly like a boxer striking into all corners like language. So a vessel can be an argument about what's in it, what's the use, and with what's in it. But during the day all is hidden beneath the sand, in compact ash, in the rolling hold. The young lovers have not yet suicided, nor the home found its heart. Much is still to be decided: time and tide, have and hold, fuse, fire, report.
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Jul 9, 2013 20:49
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This is a thing that just kind of came to me last year, and even nine months or so after writing it I'm still too close to it to see it objectively. I think it needs some workshopping though, so thanks in advance for whatever critiques any of you might have. Mary In January I met Mary Walking on the moors. I asked her where she trod, and she Said “I intend to see the sea.” I said “So do my dog and me” And captured Mary’s gaze. And so we chose to walk together, Fumbling blindly through the heather, Until we saw a seagull’s feather, And sat down by the waves. In February I asked Mary ‘Bout the weight she carried. She hemmed and hawed, but hardly tarried, Said that she had never married, Said that if I ever wearied, We could part our ways. The tale she told was full of woe. Her body sagged, her head hung low, But her eyes! – They had a kindling glow That set my soul ablaze. By March the warmth began to creep Into the corners of our sleep, And Mary dozed without a peep As long as I was there. I watched in silence as she’d sigh, Decided that I’d rather die Than live a life where she and I Weren’t meant to be a pair. But April rode on swaths of rain, And in her eyes – Those eyes! – the pain Of demons sprouting up again, That stabbed her to the core. And so I squeezed her hand in mine, Our fingers locked and intertwined. I held her close, enrobed, enshrined, ‘Til Mary cried no more. Then May, sweet May, on breath of flowers! Sunshine came and quelled the showers, And Mary saw those dreaded powers Simply were not there. And thusly did we idle, lazy Springtime memories soft and hazy. We embraced. I plucked a daisy, And stuck it in her hair. My little flower. My life. My boon. It was beneath a yellow moon That we were wed in sultry June Amongst the waves and sand. Her eyes, they sparkled on that night, All full with that same precious light, Endowing fancy ’pon my flight When I took Mary’s hand. July we passed in throes of love, Soaring on wings of bliss above Those who pined with envy of The journey we’d embarked. But there was something in the way That vanished ‘neath the light of day, Yet stalked and hunted when she lay Alone in silent dark. In August, then, against her will, Mary got prescribed a pill That calmed her down and made her still Against her inner war. I brushed her hair and rubbed her back, And watched alone through midnight’s black, Expecting that veneer to crack, But Mary cried no more. September came without a hint Of any wayward incident And so we packed our things and went To weekend at the shore. And near that beach where first we met I said I’d gladly place a bet That we would make it through this yet Despite the weight she bore. With fading warmth upon the sand, Mary, tender, stroked my hand, And said that she had never planned To love a person more. All was well and right, but then October came and cold crept in, Through creaking bones and dimpling skin And the demons I thought squashed again Raised up their thorny heads. And so it was I spied her walking Through the garden softly talking Quietly yet soundly mocking The blossoms that lay dead. The stench of death hung in the air ‘Twas in November she did share The fullest breadth of her despair, Which made my blood go cold. With horror, then, I realized The fire I’d loved in Mary’s eyes Was not the light that I so prized It was a glow From deep inside The hell within her soul. December, I remember thee With spiteful animosity And hope that I shall never see Your bitter cold once more. For while we tried to pass those days And fumble blind through snowy haze She fell into a deep malaise And Mary cried… “No more!” I found her bathed in steamy mist With crimson furrows down her wrist I screamed her name and slammed my fist Upon the wooden door. As “Auld Lang Syne” rang through the air, And footsteps echoed on the stair, I ran my fingers through her hair, I checked her eyes… And found them bare… And Mary cried no more.
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Jul 10, 2013 19:26
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cda posted:Here's my entry. i feel like this one plays with a lot of images that it never really develops. like, okay, you reveal a great truth about hearts and fire and then never go back to that? what? that is some interesting poo poo! why do coals even have hearts to begin with? tell me of these glorious lands of your birth. idk this just feels like it's so focused on style but poetry is big enough that it counts as legitimate personal exploration. that's just my opinion.
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Jul 11, 2013 06:27
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BTW please do make comments on contest poems. I'll take the newest version of each when I look at them, so also feel free to post shotgun revisions or whatever. In a way I feel lousy slapping money on something that should be a community conversation towards better poems by everyone, but the pace of the thread conflicts with my love of poems and I'll eat ten bux to, iunno, do something about that. Still short of the 5 goon low-limit, but I am glad some poets have posted so far. Maybe more will. Maybe they need something to jog the imagination. Either way, that this thread is so small is nuts. Stick around.
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Jul 11, 2013 06:55
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cda posted:Larkin is more my speed I taught this poem and it inspired some of the best conversation I've seen between 19 year olds THE MORNING AFTER A BASKETBALL GAME
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Jul 11, 2013 07:03
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Skitz posted:Mary not for no reason
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Jul 11, 2013 07:09
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My entry: GHOST FIGHT! Two ghouls decked out in chains, decking each other out in the name of some wispy sense of masculinity. No hearts to speak of, or see, but they make up for it in spirit, turning multiple advances into a shocking series of bumps in the night. With each reach of their gossamer fists these spectacular specters delight spectators with four rounds of dark hostilities.
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Jul 11, 2013 13:54
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Skitz posted:This is a thing that just kind of came to me last year, and even nine months or so after writing it I'm still too close to it to see it objectively. I think it needs some workshopping though, so thanks in advance for whatever critiques any of you might have. Is this poem meant to stand alone or is there some context to it? The reason I ask is that the archaic language and presentation rings false to me - I rolled my eyes at "trod" and by the time I got to "'pon" it actively irritated me and interfered with my enjoyment of the poem. Ultimately, the language is not authentically Victorian enough for me to feel like I have discovered a long-lost poem nor is it modern enough for me to appreciate it on its own merits. The AAAB CCCB rhyme scheme is pretty tricky and I'm impressed that you pull it off, which isn't easy, but at the expense of falling back on some real chestnuts like "flowers/showers" and "sigh/die." The month-by-month structure is also ambitious. It is very difficult to imitate this particular kind of poetry, which has become synonymous with poetical pomposity. It's the kind of thing Mark Twain parodied in Huck Finn with Emmeline Grangerford's "Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots." I think you're trying for an awful lot here and not quite succeeding.
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Jul 12, 2013 01:38
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Matlack Radio posted:My entry: This sounds good and is well conceived if kind of one-dimensional. It's about ghosts fighting and that's all. I feel like it could reach for a little more.
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Jul 12, 2013 01:44
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cda posted:This sounds good and is well conceived if kind of one-dimensional. It's about ghosts fighting and that's all. I feel like it could reach for a little more. I appreciate your feedback, both here, and on my last one. I made several changes based on your comments on my previous poem, and am enjoying the direction it's heading. In regards to GHOST FIGHT!, I was hoping that the bit about "in the name of some wispy sense of masculinity." broadened the topic, by ideally making you wonder why they're fighting at all. But perhaps not. I was definitely trying to keep it simple for these first few romps into poetry.
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Jul 12, 2013 04:32
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cda posted:Is this poem meant to stand alone or is there some context to it? The reason I ask is that the archaic language and presentation rings false to me - I rolled my eyes at "trod" and by the time I got to "'pon" it actively irritated me and interfered with my enjoyment of the poem. Ultimately, the language is not authentically Victorian enough for me to feel like I have discovered a long-lost poem nor is it modern enough for me to appreciate it on its own merits. Yeah, I don't think I succeeded either. I think maybe I got so engrossed in the rhyme structure and the calendar thing that I was trying too hard to fit everything into that framework and completely lost the emotional impact I was going for. It got too mechanical. As for the language, I totally understand what you're saying. I wasn't actively trying to make it sound Victorian per se, but I did find it creeping in and found that it was working within the meter and helping with the rhythm, so I didn't do anything to stop it. I wrote this last fall, and I think I had just read a bunch of Poe at that point, so that's probably where a lot of that was coming from, whether I realized it at the time or not. In retrospect, and reading it now after putting it away for a while, I see that I should have exerted more control over that. I was aware while I was writing that I was flirting with some degree of "poetical pomposity," but frankly I didn't really mind. I was thinking about "Mary" in a vacuum, and I didn't really care how it fit into the poetry world at large. Which is not to say that that's not a valid criticism, because it most certainly is. I just wasn't thinking about it that way. For rewrites, if I decide to touch it again, I'll definitely keep that in mind. Anyway, it's very much a first draft. There are some little things here and there it that I really like about it, but I could tell that it wasn't working as a whole, so that's why I posted it here. Thank you for the feedback. I really do appreciate it.
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Jul 12, 2013 19:40
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Well, only 4 of yall wanted to play, so the prize is void. However, I like what I'm seeing. Crits are coming. All of you wrote poems with promise. I'd like to challenge you to write harder. Not to make your poems more aggressive, tho for some that wouldn't hurt, but to interrogate your images and memories with the kind of eye that sees its subject from an angle that is in some way challenging. READ THIS poo poo Gaston Bachelard fucked around with this message at 09:31 on Jul 13, 2013 |
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Jul 13, 2013 08:48
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Hell, I'll enter if you need a fifth. I'm more than a little rusty but it could be fun.
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Jul 13, 2013 09:56
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gently caress it, go nuts. I'll judge based on whatever's posted by the time I decide to look on Monday while not doing work. Prize might change, but I'll do something.
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Jul 13, 2013 21:31
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Matlack Radio posted:In regards to GHOST FIGHT!, I was hoping that the bit about "in the name of some wispy sense of masculinity." broadened the topic, by ideally making you wonder why they're fighting at all. But perhaps not. That's definitely the bit that made me think there could be more to the poem, but right now it doesn't deliver.
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Jul 15, 2013 03:56
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PHIZ KALIFA – Untitled (?) I adore well-constructed short-line poems. The best of this aesthetic approach at once manage to enact an action, be it a thought unfurling or a cat stepping into a flowerpot. Especially at the duration you've chosen, there's a lot of opportunity for intensity and focus. A focused intensity even. I don't dislike your poem, and in fact I find its simplicity a boon for the poem. However, it's hard to overlook that your poem is a sequence of similes without any interrogation of the connections being made, without a deeper metaphoric resonance that allows similes (which are otherwise just too easy) to work in poems, without any idea of the real evidence that qualifies the comparisons made. It isn't until the half-angular final couplet that anything really interesting happens. That all said, the tenor of the poem is even and avoids indulgence (except, obviously, its reliance on the same gesture). It's sweet. Probably too sweet. I don't think the tonal clarity of the poems is matched by its content. A little tension would help. Make an argument. The argument doesn't have to be against your subject, but I'd like some savory with my sweet. cda – Certainty Let me just say how impressed I was by this poem's opening. Sure, it could be cleaner (why not “Crabs and coals scuttle, as does self-destruction sideways...”), but the symbolic leap from an image to the ineffable is carefully handled and perks my eyes down the page. After that, though, you run into some problems. “Quick” aside (what is this even telling us?) what is “it?” The antecedent feels to come from somewhere unfulfilled. Grammatically, I can only assume that “it” is self-destruction, something that I've never known to carry anything, have a heart, or care to look. Self-destruction is your subject, but you've tried to personify it rather than letting the natural objects and images fend for themselves, and glow with the sentiments you want to convey. The imagination of the poem feels stretched that doesn't feel as true to me as it could. Also, the tone of the poem changes as it seems to become self-aware. “that's the point” the poem tells me, too comparing light to language and then making “argument” half of an argument of the poem's (that a vessel can be an argument). What happened to the acutely observed personality of things that do not work in a linear fashion that I saw in the crabs and coals? The poem feels worried that I'm not understanding it, and in its self-consciousness it diminishes what it does well. “in the rolling hold” is fantastic. The heart reappears but the connection still feels a little flimsy to me. Have you read any Michael Palmer? His new one is “Thread” but “Notes for Echo Lake” is my favorite. Skitz – Mary MOORS. Now I'm thinking of Emily Bronte and, like, Anne Carson , and, “she knows how to hang puppies, that Emily”. Anyway, the big issue with this poem has been identified already. It's diction is archaic and without the kind of idiomatic integrity that makes for the juiciest, most beautiful poems. It's like the poem wants to belong in a different world, but that world is not imagined in an especially clear or effective way – so what I'm left with, and I don't even like this crit as I type it, is a poem that is trying to sound like a poem. Poems aren't the words a poet would use to describe a thing, but the words in a poem aren't foreign to the poet's lexicon, his or her world. I guess this is what we call voice. I'd love to see a poem in your voice – not the one you think you should be using. This is not to take away from the ambition of your poem. It doesn't go ignored. It just needs an appropriate vehicle. Matlack Radio – GHOST FIGHT! Man you know what you need to do with this. Don't just tell me it's about masculinity, I want that quality to unfold in the behavior of the poem and its subjects! What does a ghost fight look like? Why are these ghosts fighting in the name of masculinity? I always figured I wouldn't give a poo poo about the kind of thing after I'm dead. Why am I wrong? How many advances is multiple (this is to say avoid the vague at ALL costs)? I just don't really see the why of the scene beyond its whimsy. The whimsy is charming, but a bit “diet” for my taste. -- The winner of the contest is cda. I didn't get my five poets, but I'll come up with an adequate reward - unless, cda, you'd be appeased by a forums upgrade? This would make it easy. If you have any questions or take issue with my comments, please post about it. And keep loving posting poems. Tell your forums friends. We'll do this again sometime.
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Jul 16, 2013 05:11
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Yeah, yeah. You make some really good points. Thanks so much!
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Jul 16, 2013 16:33
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OK here's one of mine. I may remove it soon for any number of reasons, embarrassment not the least.pre:aaaaand I did Gaston Bachelard fucked around with this message at 18:53 on Jan 8, 2014 |
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Jul 20, 2013 09:27
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I like it! You lost me during the first of the two different worlds. It feels a little clunky and doesn't really flow with the easy narrative of the rest of the work.
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Jul 21, 2013 06:04
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Bachelard rear end posted:If you have any questions or take issue with my comments, please post about it. No issues here. Thanks for the feedback.
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Jul 23, 2013 07:29
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Bachelard rear end posted:OK here's one of mine. I may remove it soon for any number of reasons, embarrassment not the least. I like this; I don't see a whole lot to add, but the two things I noted above stood out to me as needing a little work. Posting a poem I'm working on, similarly themed as yours. I kinda feel like the ending might be a little too "DUN DUN DUNNNNN" but, eh, I dunno. pre:Envoys to the Island The bay around the cape is quiet and the island not far from shore we’ve taken our time —a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than the trouble he’s already got — so though the island is full of ghosts we stay the course who knows what is beyond the horizon we stay the course smoke is coming from somewhere far away stay the course are the sails ragged today no more than yesterday keep going keep going but one cannot help indulging floating driftwood a path out every gull’s place of origin the mind of the flying fish sight of the sandpiper who skims the water for reasons unknown these are fantasies so, continue so, continue into thinking the island has not been chosen but that it waits Cyber Dog fucked around with this message at 17:26 on Jul 23, 2013 |
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Jul 23, 2013 17:21
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Bachelard rear end posted:cda – Certainty Awesome. I'm glad I won, but we didn't get five, so I'd feel bad about taking a prize. Thanks, too, for your comments. I think John Ashbery does a neat trick in a lot of his poems where they become self-aware and even self-conscious but without simultaneously flattening and explaining themselves. I was trying to do that here but it is a tricky trick and I can see that I've failed. The worst part is the construction of this poem is kind of a mystery to me now. My drafts go back a long way and there's been retooling after retooling, so it's a little hard to go back and unscramble the egg to get something more consistent throughout. I have not read any Michael Palmer. I'll get right on that. I think your poetry recs in your critiques are excellent.
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Jul 24, 2013 00:52
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| # ? Apr 18, 2024 19:23 |
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Bachelard rear end posted:OK here's one of mine. I may remove it soon for any number of reasons, embarrassment not the least. I want to like this poem because it's trying hard, its heart is in the right place, and the language is carefully chosen so I feel respected as a reader, but I don't and here's why: the attempt to make the mundane transcendent is noble but runs the risk of trying too hard for significance. I could've sworn you quoted Keats (?) in this thread about roadside flowers and how the goal is to show them as they are in all of their beautiful humility, but that appears to have been a hallucination or something because now I can't find it. But anyway, if that's actually a thing, it's germane here, because what you're doing is lifting this event out of the ordinary and putting it on a pedestal which, unfortunately, ruins the very ease and unprepossessing grace that makes the event worth writing about. The first stanza and a half start out promisingly. I especially like the way the colloquialism of "fucks it up" bumps up against the more traditionally poetic language, but as soon as you hit that metaphor about the sea bird, I think things start going south pretty quickly. The fourth stanza recovers well, minus the first line which is still in pedestal-land, but the final stanza really puts the nail in this poem. It's not about you, buddy. What about the boy? I'm being critical here, but honestly I think this is a pretty good attempt that just doesn't land. There's a strong poem to be made out of the parts here, but I would scrap everything and try to find the transcendent in the mundane rather than trying to lift the mundane into the transcendent, if that makes any sense. For what it's worth, this is my favorite skateboarding-related poem.
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Jul 24, 2013 01:14
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