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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:There's a really cool Japanese thing going on here that I dig. It's a real study of cross-cultural alienation in an increasingly global world. Perched in front of our keyboards, don't we all feel like a monkey sometimes? One can only hope we eventually type some Shakespaere. I read it differently. Like, maybe, a defense of corporate interests against the environment 'cos most stuff there is just ugy anyway. And the Japanese theme is his subconscious pining for his dead Asian relatives. Also the frog might be a metaphor for his father. As for crit, I think you should probably use less commas, because less is always more right??
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Feb 21, 2013 16:28
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Picked up another book--one which those of y'all on the other side of the pond (a term which, since I'm in California, probably connotes Japan more than the UK, but I digress) might find especially relevant: New British Poetry. And although "new", in this case, means "almost ten years old", it's chock-full of wonderful stuff, so far. Would recommend.
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Feb 23, 2013 01:01
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Haoma posted:Sakae, A poem Would somebody mind explaining the Japanese references for me? I know 'super insolent frog' is the culmination of something amazing but I don't know what...
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Feb 23, 2013 01:28
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Hey, a poetry thread. Here's a thing I wrote and haven't touched in a few weeks. In Response to Lois Dodd’s “Into the Light” at the Portland Museum of Art, 2013 Lois, your face is missing. This isn’t funny - get out of the window. Lois, stop. My head hurts and I blame you for it. Why are you painting me in forty years? Twenty, thirty years ago how did you know Black smudges growing under my eyes Glasses getting bigger, As my face shrinks in on itself Lois, stop! Enough! I get it! I see my reflection In all these faces left blank Up to me now To fill in all these spaces You left unfinished.
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Feb 23, 2013 02:11
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I'm trying to write a poem about being hit and here's what I came up with. I've never written poetry before and I want to be good at it because it's the one artistic medium I actually feel some remote connection to. I've fought in competition a couple of times and my last fight I barely one but got the poo poo kicked out of me hard, so I tried to put what I felt like into words while incorporating how my parents watching the match felt. Can you guys help me? I'm trying to include the hyacinth as a reference to how I feel fighting makes me some kind of hero but in reality it's just me totally loving myself into an early grave. I wanted to make a transition from the hyacinth to the narcissus flower, kinda how it's my own pride making me think this is a wonderful and honorable life I'm leading as opposed to some notion of greek heroism so many people pretend to find in it. it was supposed to be 10 line blank verse but I kind of hosed it up. the emphasis on every second syllable should still be there but I ended it short to emphasize that ending of life thing. To Be Hit Oh, would you place a flower on my bed? Please, make it a hyacinth, where I lay My head, when I can't feel what can't be said, Oh stop, your tears embarrass me and when Mother your eyes are cracked and red, Father won't carry on like you do now, Hold me now if you really must hold me, Why can't I just leave already mother? I see the sun begin to set, I know you can see it too edit: Would it be silly/obvious to bold the first couple words of every line to get that progression I'm going for: "Oh, please. My head. Oh stop. Mother. Father. Hold me, hold me, Why can I just leave, I see the sun set" Fontoyn fucked around with this message at 21:20 on Feb 23, 2013 |
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Feb 23, 2013 20:20
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Fontoyn posted:To Be Hit It's... certainly a different take on how it feels to get the poo poo beaten out of you. I'm uncertain as to whether opening with flowers and then lingering on parents without actually addressing the physical pain is an item for the plus column, or whether it might be too far removed from the visceral sensation to be accessible. As far as content critique goes: Title: Very plain. I'd suggest something more violent--for the irony and impact of immediately thereafter discussing hyacinths. Internal rhymes: I assume the bed/head/said/red thing is intentional? If so, man, I would encourage a rethink. I applaud direct language in poetry, but it's still the job of the writer to make it tantalizing. A chef can do many things with a list of common ingredients--in fact, a fairly-common test of a cook's skill is in how they make an omelette. In choosing a simple vocabulary, it becomes your task to make the very best possible use of it. A single-syllable rhyme scheme along the lines of bed/head/said/red needs a lot of polish in order to shine, and I'm not seeing evidence of that, here. And that's really the overriding concern I have about this piece--it doesn't take the reader into unfamiliar territory. A cut flower on a pillow, a weeping mother, a reserved father, the sun sets. Try to express your idea in unusual snapshots--unique imagery, telling details, and expressions of emotion. quote:edit: Would it be silly/obvious to bold the first couple words of every line to get that progression I'm going for: I'd counsel against it. (A) If you want to include a secondary message, maybe try an acrostic; (B) if you want a publisher to follow your formatting, they aren't likely to indulge you all the way up to bold type; (C) it's about as subtle as a sledgehammer; and (D) honestly, it's not a very interesting line.
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Feb 23, 2013 23:30
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Zack_Gochuck posted:The Widow of the House Really liked this one. The overarching analogy feels well-articulated. My only beef is the same as budgieinspector's: relative to the rest of it, the first line is a little...bland? Most of it is already strongly evocative of the passage of time, so it simply feels like you could do more with the idea of graying shingles. Posting my own for critique! I was down and out yesterday and hashed this out as a kind of last-ditch effort to be expressive about it. I was surprised and kind of sheepishly pleased that I did anything at all, but seeing as how I haven't actually tried to write poetry for practically a decade I'd like to know what kind of basic beats a beginner would overlook. Aside from starting with free verse. Roadkill Sometimes I wonder how quick it could be, if I would feel my feet leave the ground, and if I would have lucidity enough for satisfaction, or fear or if it would just be all "gently caress gently caress gently caress ah" headlights catching inside your teeth bright as fists your body for one instant a single immutable wall
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Feb 24, 2013 00:03
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budgieinspector posted:It's... certainly a different take on how it feels to get the poo poo beaten out of you. I'm uncertain as to whether opening with flowers and then lingering on parents without actually addressing the physical pain is an item for the plus column, or whether it might be too far removed from the visceral sensation to be accessible. I see what you're saying. I was trying to sideline the physical pain in the sort of psuedo-acrostic and focus on trying to understand the emotional pain of those around me, but I'm not sure how to write viscerally or use images others would be able to relate to. budgieinspector posted:Title: Very plain. I'd suggest something more violent--for the irony and impact of immediately thereafter discussing hyacinths. budgieinspector posted:Internal rhymes: I assume the bed/head/said/red thing is intentional? If so, man, I would encourage a rethink. I applaud direct language in poetry, but it's still the job of the writer to make it tantalizing. A chef can do many things with a list of common ingredients--in fact, a fairly-common test of a cook's skill is in how they make an omelette. In choosing a simple vocabulary, it becomes your task to make the very best possible use of it. A single-syllable rhyme scheme along the lines of bed/head/said/red needs a lot of polish in order to shine, and I'm not seeing evidence of that, here. How can I polish it? budgieinspector posted:And that's really the overriding concern I have about this piece--it doesn't take the reader into unfamiliar territory. A cut flower on a pillow, a weeping mother, a reserved father, the sun sets. Try to express your idea in unusual snapshots--unique imagery, telling details, and expressions of emotion. Taking one example of trying to throw out more visceral emotion: how could I make the contrast between a resigned, weeping mother and a reserved, distance father better in the context of the fight? Is there a way to throw out an emotional experience there without using cliches? I'm trying to get across that the mother has all but given up and is sort of sadly wasting away emotionally while the father chose to wall himself off from the experience of watching their child get the poo poo kicked out him. I'd also like to somehow project the guilt they feel knowing that their son only endangers himself to prove his worth to them, but I'm not sure how. budgieinspector posted:I'd counsel against it. (A) If you want to include a secondary message, maybe try an acrostic; (B) if you want a publisher to follow your formatting, they aren't likely to indulge you all the way up to bold type; (C) it's about as subtle as a sledgehammer; and (D) honestly, it's not a very interesting line. Okay, that sounds good. Is the line really not very interesting? I'm still at the stage where I honestly can't tell what makes a poem good or bad. Fontoyn fucked around with this message at 02:15 on Feb 24, 2013 |
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Feb 24, 2013 00:20
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Fontoyn posted:I'm not sure how to write viscerally or use images others would be able to relate to. Verbs are visceral. Action. Pain is universal. The symptoms of injury are wide and varied, so it's possible that, if you really reflect on your experience of it, you might be able to express that moment (and the written word transmits pain best in present tense) in a unique way. The thing to consider is going inside, inhabiting your body--swollen noses, eyes, and mouths are all common enough images that most folks are desensitized to them. But you can talk about the rattle of loose teeth or the click of cartilage, the icepick in your sinuses, or the coppery post-nasal drip of a broken nose--whatever you can think of that falls under the heading "I Wish Someone Had Told Me How Much This Sucks". Another thing you can try is to zoom in on details: the texture of the thrown towel, the canvas plucking hairs from your legs. The confusion of the moment after getting tagged causes a lot of folks to notice odd, seemingly-irrelevant details. quote:How would I be able to make it more tantalizing [...] How can I polish it? I'm not saying the rhyme (or, at least, that rhyme) is a good idea, mind you--but if you have to use it, the polish needs to be applied to everything around it. Fresh imagery, fresh details, unusual characterization and physical idiosyncrasies. The only way to use a rhyme like that without your reader rolling his eyes and moving on, is to amp up everything surrounding it and leading to it. quote:Taking one example of trying to throw out more visceral emotion: how could I make the contrast between a resigned, weeping mother and a reserved, distance father better in the context of the fight? Is there a way to throw out an emotional experience there without using cliches? Well, the problem is that those figures are cliches. You might get some mileage out of switching it up so that the father is weeping and the mother is stern and reserved. Shake out the dusty tropes. In the words of Sekou Sundiata, you owe no allegiance to the facts. If they stand in the way of the emotional truth of what you're trying to do, they're expendable. quote:I'd also like to somehow project the guilt they feel knowing that their son only endangers himself to prove his worth to them, but I'm not sure how. Action. Aftermath. A hung head, unmet gaze, or a hesitant squeeze of the arm. Guilt manifests in different ways for different people, but there's tons information out there about the psychology of it, and its a focus of the study of microexpressions, so you might find some useful stuff by researching. If you want to go all Macbeth, bleed on their hands. I would add, though, that if you really want to pump up the guilt and powerlessness of the parents, have the son fighting in order to pay their bills. Few things crush loving parents like an inability to provide for their kids. quote:Is the line really not very interesting, though? I'm still at the stage where I honestly can't tell what makes a poem good or bad. It's not so much about there being an absolute right or wrong, as it is about being interesting. People who read poetry, these days, have to go out of their way to get it. They go to the trouble because they love language and crave examples of linguistic dexterity--humor, drama, clever phrasing, skillful use of traditional form, clear communication of new perspectives; that's the currency of poetry, as I see it. Give your reader the maximum bang for their buck. Do everything you can to make sure they don't wish, after reading your stuff, that they could have their minutes back. And, since poetry's real strength lies in its ability to distill an idea, that means, in practice, that you ought to make each word count. Don't cram in a boring word just to flesh out a meter--find a better word, rewrite the line, write in a different meter. As long as you can justify every bit as adding to the potential reward which awaits a reader for taking the time to check out your stuff, you should be okay.
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Feb 24, 2013 02:26
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I took a lot of your advice and tried to re-write it. I removed myself and the original intent from the poem and sort of tried to make it relatable like you wanted. “Marble and the Sculptor” Oh, would you place a flower on my bed? Please, cut me a hyacinth, jaundiced stalk Sanguine sheets, why I can't feel what can't be Stop, you'll sanitize stained eyes with hyacinth's sap. Mother calls them jonquil and daffodil and She can no longer tend to her garden. A warped vision through ruin'd windows Makes believe that torpor suffocates the soft leaves. Father slept in bhasma and forgot a stem to breathe His lungs full to burst with desiccant Every exhale exhuming a pinch of ash. Father's pitted face deserved a flower. He glimpsed the sun begin to smolder, I know with your third eye you can see it too
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Feb 25, 2013 21:57
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Fontoyn posted:I took a lot of your advice and tried to re-write it. I removed myself and the original intent from the poem and sort of tried to make it relatable like you wanted. Interesting fauna motif on this poem. The cutting at the beginning kind of makes me think of a fresh newborn, what with the umbilical cord cut and all. I like everything up to "smolder" in the third to last line. I don't like the cut to a third eye. I feel like the word "surrogate" belongs in this poem for some reason. It is a mystery. I would also like to see some more punctuation. Some of the enjambed lines don't make sense in terms of punctuation. Mostly they're ideas running together. I don't really get a feeling of violence or being hit at all without reading that this poem is supposed to be about that. That could be an issue. As mentioned, more concrete, violent verbs may be necessary to tie the theme of abuse and fauna together. I think they are two excellent media for contrast; beauty and violence are so close in nature. A blood-picked spread. Anywho, I like the poem. Speaking of poems and flowers, here is a flowery piece of verse for you all. I like Shakespearean sonnets, but I don't do iambic so much. This is the first one I've written in a couple of months. I feel like it's a smattering of paint on a wall, abstract to say the least. I like them like that. I've got another about spring time, which is less abstract. If you like this one, I can post the other. "Blue Mountain at Dusk" Blue mountain teeming uncomfortably quick-- Sugar sup’d; in hyperextended gas-- Relent to make like rank sedges to clips, And sublux under the volcanic ash. Decomposing at an alarming rate, The chemical wrench I threw in to me, Halflifes of rocks from under the substrate, Off the receiver, it still claims to be: “Turn back, hence, to golden shores of the mind!” But slanderous lies never stay the same, Cantankerous lie of another kind: If you kill it now, then I’ll take the blame. Inauspicious, the fault lies where it’s cast: Crumbling crucifix--my own iconoclast. vandalism fucked around with this message at 04:21 on Feb 26, 2013 |
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Feb 26, 2013 04:14
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First off, I'm so excited that I found out this thread exists! I want to post something but I'm suddenly feeling rather bashful out of nowhere, and the only things I can think of that I'd feel comfortable sharing are currently pending review for publication...but, I'll post something soon  Here's a kinda half-assed review, I don't know much (if anything) about Shakespeare/sonnets but another person's opinion never hurt, right? vandalism posted:"Blue Mountain at Dusk" I underlined the words that seemed too much to me to be like "Hey, I went to thesaurus.com and searched for bigger and fancier sounding word that the one I had in mind!" But take that with a grain of salt. Otherwise I rather enjoy the other word choices you made as they were vivid yet to the point (See George Orwell, "Politics and the English Language") I know there are specific rules with sonnets, but I guess I'm the kind of person who hates modifiers unless they add something significant that couldn't otherwise be found in separate word choice. Like "Blue Mountain teeming uncomfortably quick"-- uncomfortably quick? I feel like there are better ways to say that. Sorry if my comments are really small and nit-picky, I'm an editor by nature so it's just something that comes to mind right away, but maybe it was still helpful? I hope 
Krasnaya fucked around with this message at 05:27 on Feb 27, 2013 |
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Feb 27, 2013 05:25
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Alright, well after bickering with Muffin about the word "like" I thought I may as well post something. I'm trying to make myself write a bit more because the dates on my catalog of poems is pretty depressing, a month here, 3 months there, and it's been a year with only a few scraps. I do like those stupid prompts a lot, so if anyone has a good recommendation for where to get them, let me know. Thanks. I welcome critique and awe equally. Blades Atropa belladonna overhung my eyes like lampshades, scopolamine daymares in the wood with reverb—— those purples, I smell ozone on this bruised tree where thunder kshraked its crop and broke its skin—— cropped close I mean a cutting fright the lightning sword a pike a pick a shear atropa belladonna whirling band and radial saws I saw I mean I see a swinging swing a tired playground for the ghosts graffiti on the rungs say hema, blood in Spanish red leaves two autumns old in older foot grooves flat faced specters darting from the ozone more smell than sight and dropping out of view as dusk blew in convincingly like night, the swing chains clink an orange hue.
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Feb 27, 2013 06:29
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I haven't come up with a title yet You can smell the evil in here. There's petrol fumes in those party balloons, and chloroform under the floorboards, thuggish bouncers tripping the fight fantastic and strippers tied up in elastic. The plumbing is thrumming with blood and benzos of heavy-lidded losers slumming it with their heads in the sinks relieving themselves of rancid drinks, while outside a carnival of deranged strangers recite on the railings of the roof terrace without realising it's a sheer drop on both sides and they're already sliding, sliding, sliding down where nobody gives a gently caress when upstairs they're giving them out for free. Just wrote this. I don't like the first line now that I'm posting it either. Edit: Or the stuff about elastic. Goddamn. But I figured I've never put any poetry up for critting before and thread was about to drop off the front page, so. If nobody does your poem by tomorrow deptstoremook, I'll try and get on it. Kinda more edgy about putting this stuff out than prose, definitely feels a bit more 'personal' even when it isn't. Jeza fucked around with this message at 04:54 on Mar 3, 2013 |
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Mar 3, 2013 04:51
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I'd like to say that I'm new to the thread before writing this criticism. I began writing poetry some time last January, usually writing in strict metrical verse. I did a sonnet here and there too. But I've started writing free verse and reading a lot more poetry, mostly modern stuff. But I thought I'd start out by addressing someone else's work as a sign of goodwill, I guess. I'd rather not appear as if I'm barging in and demanding attention. Before I start addressing your poem, Jeza, let me say that I liked it. It's flawed, but it's got a grimy, visceral tone to it that you're so close to capturing. Jeza posted:I haven't come up with a title yet You're right, this line isn't good. Cut it. You explain the "evil" in the poem just fine and set the scene in the subsequent line, so it's unnecessary as well as a bit trite. Plus, "evil" is intensely abstract. Jeza posted:
The first two lines are great. You mingle "u," "o," and "r" sounds well, giving these first two lines wonderful synergy. However, the following rhyme seems forced, and the lines don't seem to say much. What is it that makes the bouncers thuggish, exactly? The "fight fantastic?" I can't quite understand what you're trying to say about them, though I think it's a good idea to address them, since they' a part of the club scene. However, the "strippers tied up" part conveys a sense of bondage, though not really a sense of disgust. I feel as if that's what you're trying to do in this poem, but you don't convey that in either of these lines. Jeza posted:The plumbing I feel like this should be all one line. "with" isn't an interesting word to start a line with, so combining them would solve that problem. You've got other lines of length, so it wouldn't be out of character for the work. Moreover, what about a line break here? At "The plumbing?" It would impart a change of scenery, which is what you appear to be doing. Jeza posted:of heavy-lidded losers slumming it I like the rhythm here, but I feel as if "with" could be omitted entirely. In addition, "relieving" seems to be too kind a word here. You've been displaying these people as disgraced and I feel as if it takes away from that. Jeza posted:
First, I think you could take out the word "while" and simply use a line break to show that the poem is changing location. Also, why the line break after "recite?" The line seems awkwardly short. If you're trying to say something, I'm not seeing it. Furthermore, the words "and they're" aren't too good of choices to start this line with, which is otherwise good. I'm not sure if you could take them out completely though. Maybe "already they're sliding, sliding sliding?" Like I said, I really like the tone you've established here. It sounds dirty, but also condemning, and I think that gives the poem a sense of purpose. I suppose if I'm going to criticize, I should offer something of my own. I'll run over a draft of something I wrote up earlier and put it up some time today or tomorrow.
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Mar 4, 2013 22:02
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I'm a super-novice, but I just made a bunch of haiku for an assignment. I was satisfied with how they turned out, but would prefer outside opinion before doing anything else with them. (Currently posted in the order that I wrote them.) none know the contents of the hollow oak near Rome do not try to guess a dim empty stage with a floor that has collapsed we all move forward the switch has been flipped lightning enters the condemned justice is senile "no, no, no" she shouts he chooses not to hear her but we're all unheard a punch to the face injures the face and the fist victory isn't testosterone flares bursts and spikes of attraction is the all clotting
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Mar 5, 2013 04:41
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LaughMyselfTo posted:I'm a super-novice, but I just made a bunch of haiku for an assignment. I was satisfied with how they turned out, but would prefer outside opinion before doing anything else with them. I like the little snippets you describe in these haiku. My main crit would be that you give the "point" away, usually in the last line, rather than have the moment you capture speak for itself; that's the main strength of haiku. For example, these: quote:"no, no, no" she shouts Those last lines tell rather than show their point. Focus more on finishing the description of the moment you're describing, and choose the right words to convey that justice is senile, or that we're unheard. I feel like there's the extra challenge in English to pack in a lot into 3 lines without having kanji with double meanings and word/grammar structure you'd have in Japanese, but I think that's what make haiku fun to write and read. Another form you may like to try is tanka, which is another great Japanese poetry form that uses five lines. Here's a link: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5793 Similar limitations, but you'll have a few more lines and syllables too work with if you want a bit more space to describe things. And if no one minds, I have a poem to post: I watch the brown surface froth and swirl I read the steam rising and dancing slow to the rhythm of my breath I see the future in its curls I feel the heat my skin alive and tingling as I clasp onto its warmth I blow and watch the waves lap over stinging and smooth as I place my lips at the edge I open and it spreads into my cheeks my arms my stomach my toes warm and sweet I'm thinking the title will just be "Hot chocolate", but I'm open to suggestions. And if it's okay to post more than one, here's one I'm having trouble with. I can't figure out what else to change. At first I thought "It's perfect!" and then I pulled my head out of my rear end and realized that means "It needs critique!": My grief bears no form and no bones A tree with no branches or roots Water does not swell or tide The sun has no light No movement to the wind, the hot air buries itself into the ground Dry, unmoving eye Lips that move but bear no sound A listless hand still holding onto the ghost of your own
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Mar 8, 2013 02:28
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This is a simple question more than an educated critique. Is this...Jeza posted:and they're already sliding, sliding, sliding ever necessary? Whenever I've encountered a word repeated like this in poems, it always comes across as a contrived dramatic erfect. I guess I'm never really sure what significance it's supposed to convey.
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Mar 13, 2013 15:46
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Dead Blue Sky posted:This is a simple question more than an educated critique. Is this... In the end I changed this to just a single repetition, but in answer to your question the effect I was aiming for was kind of a verbal imitation of sliding. Repeating a word like sliding/slipping/falling or whatever, has always to me given an extra sense of presence and immediacy. There is probably a fancy literary term for the words imitating the action, like onomatopoeia that encompasses what I'm flailing and failing to put across here. The same kind of thing for 'down, down, down' kind of drags your perspective down with it. Is it ever necessary? No. Is it contrived? Probably, but poetry is by definition contrived.
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Mar 14, 2013 00:15
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I'm having trouble with the tense, everything should be in past tense but it just doesn't sound right. Burst of Faith another day another flower sprouted another dog dead another set of lips, pouted took aim poured words cooled heads set fires little children were born tiny cowards and liars many moments of pause full of prayers and blessings gave rise to great armies of crisp window dressings some were ironed some were hung some were pickled for later and their quick, witty chatter dug a deep smoking crater that I stood in confused so far out of the way and tomorrow began before I finished today.
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Mar 25, 2013 07:44
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Ethanfr0me posted:I'm having trouble with the tense, everything should be in past tense but it just doesn't sound right. I found the two uses of "and" to be distracting from the overall style of the poem. I also think that the repetition of "another" and "some" are a little clunky. I don't hear a tense problem though.
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Mar 25, 2013 15:06
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Ethanfr0me posted:I'm having trouble with the tense, everything should be in past tense but it just doesn't sound right. I'm not entirely sure what this is you've posted. I don't know how to tell you to go home and write a poem.
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Mar 26, 2013 04:36
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yoyomama posted:And if no one minds, I have a poem to post: I don't feel like either of your poems really go anywhere. For the length that the tentatively titled "Hot Chocolate" takes up, there isn't much substance behind it or development of any kind. I feel like that kind of sensory experience poem could be cool if it was given some kind of hook to it that let it stay in your imagination, or if it was honed down to something sharper and more compact. As it is it feels like you need to make a second pass at it and cut about 30-40% of the lines. Your second poem feels very vague but very obvious at the same time. I don't walk away from it with any clear message in my head, but at the same time the images don't really leave me anything to ponder, either. It starts out very typical (form -> bones) and then goes into a chain that never really stretches the imagination (tree->water->sun->wind->air->ground) and generally feels very done. I just feel like you didn't quite hit it on either of these. Jeza posted:In the end I changed this to just a single repetition, but in answer to your question the effect I was aiming for was kind of a verbal imitation of sliding. Repeating a word like sliding/slipping/falling or whatever, has always to me given an extra sense of presence and immediacy. There is probably a fancy literary term for the words imitating the action, like onomatopoeia that encompasses what I'm flailing and failing to put across here. The same kind of thing for 'down, down, down' kind of drags your perspective down with it. There's almost definitely a word for what you're describing but my lit class was one too many months ago for me to remember what it is. It's a pretty common thing in poetry, actually, but I feel like Kerouac did it really well when he started using near-words and rhymes instead of straight repetition (e.g. "the fantastic drowse and drum of hum of lum mum afternoon nathin' to do" which really gets that humming sound stuck in your head, along with a touch of drawl to accentuate the effect) which is something you may want to consider as well. Actual repetition can come off as a little lazy when you have so many words and sounds at your disposal, especially if you let yourself just start making things up. Also get your head out of your rear end, "poetry is by definition contrived." Anyway I have two poems that didn't really make it for me, I'd like to hear people's thoughts: Journal of an Addict I want, I crave, I need absolution; for nobody does it come easy, no not even as we bathe in waters of original sin I swam twenty odd lengths one short, one long, one fast, one slow, grinding pain, emptiness to be filled by despair where I was once given the capacity to be loved. I have not chosen by will this prison, like a mouse I am trapped by simplest desire to burn my effigies and kill my father, my mother, dearest, I hold to blame myself and no one else. My Astronomer Friend I’ve started counting the seconds I spend counting the minutes I’ve waited, wanting the stars to kiss the earth a sweet goodbye. I’ve started catching blows against myself. I’ve started biting hands that strike me and the doctors say I’m on the road to health. It’s 3 A.M. and I say I’m sleeping. I would be too if I was not staring skyward, wishing the future and the past weren’t both so drat awkwardly bright.
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Mar 29, 2013 09:14
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In the first couple stanzas I'm not a huge fan of the "original sin" and "one short, one long, one fast, one slow," lines - they feel a little lazy to me, and while I'm getting a glimpse of pool laps I'm not really sure that original sin is a good tie in to water.Clothed N Famous posted:
This is the point where I feel this gets good. The next couple of stanzas have some good imagery, although I think you can do better than prison/mouse - either commit to the prison metaphor or the mouse metaphor. quote:where I was once given Nothing useful on this next one, I actually quite like it. quote:My Astronomer Friend Playing, trying to get something out, not sure if I like this. Rough! Just wrote it. Thoughts? Sitting together we talk. Nothing important, really, chatting about television shows, a movie playing out or the fire at my favorite bar dancing in front of us, sitting next to each other we talk and I want to touch you but I’m never quite sure, reaching out one finger, angling my shoulder toward you just a bit, my head bent downward, my hair catching on the Velcro of your coat, my fingertip brushing the top of one of your knuckles, softly, timid, the faint stir of air between us measured in breaths, we breathe in-and-out as one as I catch your eyes, the direction telling, more telling perhaps than the motion of your finger, flexing upward to meet my finger, we touch, finally, so softly that the spark is measured not in voltage but in the tiny pause in our breath.
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Mar 30, 2013 03:25
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Clothed N Famous posted:I don't feel like either of your poems really go anywhere. Thanks a ton for the feedback. I never thought about where my poems "go" before. I just figure I want to get an image or feeling without a "plot", but I can see how that hurts that just makes it seem rambling or lacking anything to say. I'll start revising with that in mind, and maybe post something else that has a much clearer point to it. That said, I don't know if I had anything like that in mind when I first wrote these pieces, so I think I need to start thinking about that more when I start writing as well. I need to work on getting whatever's in my head better put on the page so other people can understand it, and do a better job of figuring out what's in there in the first place.
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Mar 31, 2013 02:21
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yoyomama posted:Thanks a ton for the feedback. I never thought about where my poems "go" before. I just figure I want to get an image or feeling without a "plot", but I can see how that hurts that just makes it seem rambling or lacking anything to say. I'll start revising with that in mind, and maybe post something else that has a much clearer point to it. That said, I don't know if I had anything like that in mind when I first wrote these pieces, so I think I need to start thinking about that more when I start writing as well. I need to work on getting whatever's in my head better put on the page so other people can understand it, and do a better job of figuring out what's in there in the first place. Even if you write narrative poetry, I wouldn't think of its aim as a "plot" so much as a "project". Know why you are writing before you know what you are writing. Compare a poem I think about all the time, Catherine Doty's Yes: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2006/11/30 Yes It's about the blood banging in the body, and the brain lolling in its bed like a happy baby. At your touch, the nerve, that volatile spook tree, vibrates. The lungs take up their work with a giddy vigor. Tremors in the joints and tympani, dust storms in the canister of sugar. The coil of ribs heats up, begins to glow. Come here. Contrast "The coil of ribs / heats up, begins / to glow" with "I feel the heat / my skin alive / and tingling as I clasp / onto its warmth". Both yours and Doty's are about the bodily reaction to a physical stimulus, and neither has a "plot", but hers has a stronger project. By the end of yours, I don't know anything I didn't expect to know when starting it. It ends with hot chocolate being "warm and sweet". Your steam dances, your heat spreads, your waves lap. Doty uses verbs, images, sounds that I would never expect to describe getting horny. Her blood bangs, her ribs glow, her brain lolls. By the end of her poem, not only have we been led through her intimate physical response, but we are more than invited into joining it, we are commanded. Hers knows exactly why it is saying what it is saying. Hers is directed to someone, to us, to me. Yours is directed to you. I'm just there as you talk about it. Her imagery also ramps up from vibration to tremor to storm, a deliberate vector of purpose. The only movement I can find in yours at the moment is from watching to drinking to heat spreading, again kind of expected.
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Mar 31, 2013 04:48
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Josh Lark posted:awesome advice Thanks a ton, this really helps to clarify things. I think I'll read some more poetry (and more about poetry), and then go back to revising, since there's definitely a lot I need to learn in regards to craft. Especially this: quote:Hers is directed to someone, to us, to me. Yours is directed to you.
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Apr 3, 2013 23:17
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I realized the other day that I never posted anything in here after criticizing. Hardly fair. I'm not a talented poet, not yet I think. I fail to properly express the a conceit in most of my work. But I'm getting better every day, and I write a few poems a week. Here's some of what's popped up throughout last week. ------------------------------------ My hands grow heavy draped across your naked chest The moonlight casts your form in alabaster marble. Dear, my lips grow limp steeped against your neck. I set my eyes on your face, staring out as I nod off, dreaming of you and I lying together instead. ------------------------------------ Oh! A familiar face! Hello! Here, ha ha, a twist of the wrist, a fan of the hand, simple, yes, hello! But I don't get even a glance, so I drink. One beer, one lonely beer, a walk to a convenience store. Simpering, I speak courtesies to strangers because I am a fool, of course, you know. To raise my hand, filled with lead and pus would be too much today. It is always too much. Lying down I... ------------------------------------------ He sits astray and aside, beside himself running the well-wrung gamut of the bar's endless dreary noise waiting. Waiting for a fleeting yesterday to return atop the liquored sea he sails. Alone, whole to me in existence foreign in essence.
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Apr 8, 2013 22:44
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I've been working on this poem since January, and I'll be reciting it at both my school district's poetry slam, and a "Poetry Cafe" that is being put on by my school. I'd love some critiquing, or suggestions for my performance. An Instance of Incoherent Insane Insight My mind is a mule, stubborn and braying nonsense, but capable of work. Plowing neural fields with brutish ease I hold the reins, and watch certain stories sprout. By “consciousness,” most merely mean awareness, without which we are nothing but organic bodies in motion, a collected collusion of accidental collisions. I prefer the term “ambition” as the signature of Self, as ambition is not necessarily tied to possession, the way one might presume their possession of awareness. Our Earth is plagued by illusory external ambitions being inadvertently adopted But, I am without owning. I need no door-knocking, fast-talking solicitor selling me a so-called “self,” no prepackaged, profound perception I'll supposedly own in sixteen simple payments, And which I'm meant to mistake for me, again and again, purchase after purchase, burying real inner spirit beneath a stagnant solution of manufactured mindsets, archetypal imagery, and insignificant inner opinions. All brand-name illusions. Consciousness is a dream that people aware of divine inner ambition dare to achieve. Yet such desire, and desire of any kind poisons the purity of the panacea. As we survive our self-served suffering made from the separation from true consciousness, we are distracted from true ambition's goal: the excavation of what some call the soul. Spasmodically living, breath by breath, I engage with others, earnest in empathy. I am bound to wanting that which is inconceivable. I seek to achieve what I know will not be: paradoxically and disgracefully abandoning humanity for my True Self. Transcending ambition and ascending from awareness, I seek to attain True Consciousness, A “most high” ambition innate to deepest me. A potentiality where, with zealous abandon, I paradoxically and disgracefully transcend wanting to not want the same thing that I don't want to want: to unite desire and suffering in divine death, where life flourishes and naught but consciousness survives. I wake, walk, eat, sleep, cycle through life deranged with dreams of seeming capabilities I've yet to reach, and I yearn to achieve my non-existent potential for my potential non-seeming existence. While I yearn to collapse the confining transoms of my mind, I thank God it's my mind not my mind's me - because were I a slave to thought, I could potentially be not.
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Apr 19, 2013 03:22
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Ndsfreak posted:I've been working on this poem since January, and I'll be reciting it at both my school district's poetry slam Struggling to give this a fair shake--spoken poetry makes me cringe. And I have to imagine someone saying these words in a room from which I cannot easily excuse myself. So I automatically hate you. quote:An Instance of Incoherent Insane Insight Dear gently caress. quote:My mind is a mule, stubborn and braying nonsense, Fair enough. If this were on a page, I'd want to rework/reword it to get rid of the flab ("capable of" and "certain" add nothing; "braying nonsense" would make my rear end chew a hole in my chair if I had to hear it aloud), but you've set up the brain/mule metaphor and haven't quite beaten in to death. ...But it all goes downhill from there. Look, unless you sound like Chuck D. and have the preternatural self-assurance of Saul Williams, the rest of the piece is going to be unforgivably obnoxious. You give us only a single further half-rear end bit of imagery (the "door-knocking, fast-talking solicitor"), your syntax feels unnatural, and you seem to have turned the thesaurus upside-down and shaken it for all it's worth. And that's setting aside the fact that you spend the entire rest of the poem poncing on about your mental landscape. Which probably isn't a topic of interest to many people outside of, y'know... you. First thing I'd suggest is to take yourself out of the story; you're too far up in your own head. Create a character. His mind is a mule. Work the metaphor all the way through to the end (his heart is a duck; his spleen is a gibbon--whatever), and then twist it in the last stanza. Next thing: Concrete imagery. Paint a drat picture. Make it move. Add sound, smell, taste, touch. Most of the audience would probably rather be home, watching a movie--so spin a movie in their heads. Last thing: Make it funny. Unless it's political, in which case make it really funny.
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Apr 19, 2013 05:02
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Budgieinspector covered pretty much everything I was going to say. There isn't a single joke in there, which with a topic like that gets pretty exhausting. It's pedantic/didactic to the nth degree, and it takes itself very seriously, which means no one else will. My impression of mystics is that they tend to have a pretty great sense of humor. A lot of the phrasing is awkward and I have a very hard time imagining you saying it. The ideas seem to live in a world of generality instead of assuming an atomic singularity which would allow them universality -- imagery can help with this, giving it an immediacy which will then allow us to see beyond, to the vistas of spirit. Plus it gives us something to follow. Here's something I wrote yesterday, first go around in a few months. Untitled (A bubble) A bubble overcame me. With what precision its surface tension the magnitude of my self. As though stretched on its skin. An awkward situation. Abyssal belch. Now, absent, I had to resume. Gradually. Was the following laughter sufficient, when at last I followed from it? Laughing of the rasping class, constriction in the throat perhaps, not entirely unpleasant but something to grow out of. I have these times when I want to cry, of a sudden, or gasp, the diaphragm a criminal in the loud shunt of the light. My sorrow then is for the fact of existence. My joy occasionally an eggplant. Drag the velvet on the couch. Drape; drape the velvet on the couch. Am I some fat toe of God’s fallen asleep? The swollen seaslug pincushion of numbness and tingling, the slow arousal to an immemorial exotics? Every moment belongs only to being itself alone. Listen carefully: this ache, this casual kind of pleasure, like a belly overfull, which points beyond itself, as wakefulness to slumber or slumber to wakefulness, & otherwise -- the bubble burst. The crater subsided to a curious dormance.
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Apr 19, 2013 15:39
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budgieinspector posted:
And if you can do it, for god sakes, make them want to cry too. I won't say this is 100% the case, but most of the time, if you're not causing either laughter or tears in a slam poem, you're doing it wrong. edit: this is probably one of my favorite poems to hear, Robbie Q Telfer's Awkward Scars: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmV353TKtGs. And I think he oscillates between joyous laughter and sympathetic tears pretty well. bairfanx fucked around with this message at 18:10 on Apr 19, 2013 |
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Apr 19, 2013 18:03
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Fenchurch posted:Sitting together we talk. The format. Is it that way for a particular reason? If anything, reverse the line lengths, so as the speaker nears the object of his affection, the lines shorten. I cut many words and changed a few more from the poem I posted earlier, "Crux Commissa:" When I build the cross, I make the joinery sound. A tenon atop the dense olivewood stipes, the mortise carefully chiseled and centered in the patibulum, pinned with a planetree plug whose pale sapwood shows my skill against the tan and gray grain. When I finish the cross, the devil is in the details- beams planed with exactitude and sanded superfine. Even without linseed oil, there's no chance of splinters. I leave the transverse live-edged for a refined, modern look. When I set the cross, I dig below the frost line, augering the earth precisely so the beam moves but little. It ascends as a shoot, a perfect verticality from the ragged dome of the hill. The craftsmanship is elegant against the messiness of nature.
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Apr 20, 2013 02:24
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First thing I've written in a while. Not sure if it's actually a poem, or just wankery. Your Starter Kit I. Pre-Dawn (shh). Pick any three (3):
• first tentative trills of birdsong (local species) • lowing of cattle in barn • whispers in garden • dream of stranger breaking in every time you leave house • colicky infant • arm trapped beneath spouse/lover • dream of horses driven off cliff • cool pillow • dream of lover/spouse actually stranger; subterfuge discovered; screams like horses driven off cliff • undesirable amount of linen around feet II. Rise and Shine! Pick any one (1):
• rise with first light • rise with cock’s crow • rise with alarm (bell) • rise with alarm (klaxon) • rise with alarm (music) • rise with alarming music • rise to smell of breakfast • rise to smell of smoke • rise to screams of child/spouse/lover • rise to laughter of stranger in corner of room III. Dress for Success! Pick any one (1):
• dress for manual labor • dress for school • dress for church • dress for funeral • dress for Rodeo Clown Jamboree • refuse to dress (stay at home) • refuse to dress (go to office) • refuse to dress (stand on front step until police arrive) • find self tied to bed by spouse/lover/stranger (friendly) • find self tied to bed by spouse/lover/stranger (armed) IV. Breakfast! [Breakfast option chosen by algorithm based on prior selections. May range from Lumberjack Special to hollow stares of starving children.] V. Running Late! Pick any two (2):
• self sick all over child • existential crisis (includes beret) • lost keys • lost pet (local species) • lost differentiation between self and surroundings • homeless man raiding trash wants to discuss donation/hallucination • homework ate dog • cattle refuse to stand (bovine spongiform encephalopathy; entire herd must be destroyed) • limes hanging from lemon trees • stunned by beauty and interconnectedness of all things • still tied to bed VI. Motivation! Pick any one (1):
• Will to do terrible things in name of acquisition (wealth, sex, power, etc.) • Will to do terrible things in name of deity • Will to do terrible things in name of progress • Will to do terrible things in name of status quo • Will to do terrible things in name of dragging world back to More Innocent Time (More Innocent Time may include pandemics of plague, pox, polio, parasites, prejudice, peasant status, piety and penance unappealing to self, peine forte et dure, pro forma pedophilia, prehistoric predators long since perished, etc.) VII. Refreshment! [Refreshment option chosen by algorithm based on prior selections. May range from blood of enemies to tears of saints. Bottled water option recommended, but only available with Deluxe package (see brochure for details).] We hope you enjoy our service and trust you’ll agree that starting your day with Certainty™ leads to a happier, more confident existence.
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Apr 28, 2013 02:39
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I like the idea very much, minus the endnote; at first it feels like a starter kit for your very own poem, but then it veers into social commentary. When it felt more like the former, I enjoyed it more. In that case, angling toward effective juxtaposition in each section, to create a variety of effects ("humor and pathos"), would be my recommendation. I have seen microprose of that kind: there is something (less?) of a "story" to a given series of juxtapositions, but even moreso, each juxtaposed moment or vector has its own story, of which we're only given the most fleeting glimpse; we get the definite sensation it came from somewhere and it headed elsewhere, but we know only the tiniest bit of its life. That's the feeling I'd like to get from each listed option, that they open out onto hundreds of thousands of vistas, branching and ramifying, like Borges' Garden of Forking Paths. Then the way they bump up against each other can have tremendous unspoken energy. Because it is very cinematic, in terms of its basic enforcement of a sequence of images, you must be very careful about which you choose to show. One misplaced or inappropriate selection will ruin a whole chunk. On the other hand, the right selections could create bizarre and intense resonations. On a more specific note, a lot of the jokes feel forced and don't hit the right note. I'm not sure if they're too bitter or they just ring hollow or clunky. Perhaps removing the social commentary aspect, to some degree, could help with this -- it comes off feeling somehow grumpy or judgmental? I dunno. Instead of humor that has a twinkle in its eye, with the sad knowledge of human feebleness, or whatever it is. Also, I understand you've chosen the repetitious list format purposefully, but I actually think the utter lack of list-iness in the first section (Pre-Dawn) is stronger. The fragmented and embedded list of dreams (not immediately following one another; not occupying entire entries in the list) is a fun variation, and kind of haunting. Perhaps limiting the repetition to only one or two sections would be more effective. Finally, the slashes are very difficult to pull off! It seems like you would need a higher density of them to make it play, and in a poem this long, I don't think it'll work. I'd suggest cutting them. In a shorter poem, that could be more clearly a kind of business or marketing concept piece, they might find more life. nomadologique fucked around with this message at 07:45 on Apr 30, 2013 |
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Apr 30, 2013 07:35
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Ah, I've thought of a more acute critique of the "main point." It feels as if each "choice" is little more than a meaningless alternative in a life doomed to smallness and inadequacy. I'd love if it was the opposite: every choice, even the smallest, has revolutionary, world-altering consequences. I don't think this sense could be achieved directly, by telling us that's the case in some sort of endnote, which is what's happening here to tell us the choices don't matter; instead, some kind of magnificence must be built up in the description of the choices themselves, and the way they interact, but I'm not sure how. Perhaps exquisite detailing, or a feeling of independent life as I've described above, or something else entirely.
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Apr 30, 2013 15:04
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nomadologique posted:too bitter Aaaaaand you've pretty much summed up my worldview. I guess it's good that my intent is getting across... but unless it's interesting or engaging, intent ain't enough. I'll think about what you've said--seriously; thanks for the thoughtful feedback.
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Apr 30, 2013 16:46
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To be fair, it's possible that it is interesting or engaging, just not to me. My own "spiritual" development or whatever has been away from that attitude and viewpoint, so it might be that it just doesn't appeal to me personally.
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Apr 30, 2013 16:59
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I've also just thought: the poem starts out quite innocently, and maybe that's a way to do what you want to do. Perhaps you could lead us on a journey which begins hopefully, sort of wide-eyed, and is slowly and progressively shut down throughout the selections. Maybe that was what you tried to do, but it seems to happen rather too quickly and heavily, instead of taking us by surprise, like we're not quite sure when it all went wrong...
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Apr 30, 2013 19:51
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Hi. I sometimes like to write things in my spare time. I wrote a poem about cigarettes. I call it, "Cigarettes." Idol businessman worship of many decades past Burning white bridges that were never meant to last Ash the sun now, it holds no mystique I house cloud gods in my lungs, and sometimes forget to breath. Chemical based desire to whittle away the years Saviors come and go but the flame is always near Wind rushes too fast like God wants it out But we've overcome the worry of a smokeless drought Part of the appeal is knowing the thrill A very human emotion of enjoying what kills But, of course, it will soon be too late I bet you'd light up in front of St. Peter's face Sometimes at night I see figures in the dust Harlots and heathens in an ocean of rust One day they'll take me and I'll never look back I just have to burn up a thousand more packs Parasitic relationship, but no clear winner My body tars up while the stick gets thinner Take in all the meaning of concrete sin Blow out all the angels and devils within.
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May 2, 2013 07:54
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