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TerrorTurtle posted:Hi. I sometimes like to write things in my spare time. I wrote a poem about cigarettes. I call it, "Cigarettes." I like it. A couple of things though, the rhyme scheme is interesting, and works for the most part, but a couple of times it felt a little forced. For example, a cigarette doesn't really get thinner as you smoke it, it gets shorter. That leads me to believe that you used "thinner" not because it was the best word, but because it rhymes with "winner." That's something you really have to watch out for with rhyme schemes. Secondly I found there was a lot of confusion with the "I" and "You." At times it seemed like "I" was the smoker, other times "I" directly addresses "you" as if "you" is the smoker. I think if you clear this up and go with one or the other, the poem would be more concise and to the point. Personally, I think you should take the references to "You" out altogether because it makes it sound like you're up on a high horse. If that's what you want, go for it, but I personally found that a little off-putting, especially the line, "I bet you'd light up in front of St. Peter's face." Here's one I wrote the other day. Comments appreciated: Maturescent I whistled, As I plunged the shovel in the earth. The notes, Melodious in the air, Contorting around my labour, Lifted the burden of work from my mind. Now I dig with a backhoe, Large, yellow and serious. We gouge-out a grave for the notes, Shot from the air by the pandemonium of machinery.
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May 2, 2013 10:42
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Zack_Gochuck posted:I like it. A couple of things though, the rhyme scheme is interesting, and works for the most part, but a couple of times it felt a little forced. For example, a cigarette doesn't really get thinner as you smoke it, it gets shorter. That leads me to believe that you used "thinner" not because it was the best word, but because it rhymes with "winner." That's something you really have to watch out for with rhyme schemes. First of all, thank you for your thanks  I wasn't really sure of the reaction I'd get if I posted my poem here. Well, with the "thinner" thing, I figured it wasn't the most accurate word. But, when smoking a cig, it DOES gets thinner in a way. By thinner, I meant that the cigarette decreases in mass and size. It's not the most accurate of descriptions, but it describes how I felt. You are right, though, in the sense that I choose that word because it rhymes with winner. For the second point.... I'm going to be honest here. I originally posted this poem on Facebook. And I have many friends that would be offended if I made this poem as to solely indicate that I was the only smoker I was talking about. So, by writing "you," I thought that I might redirect the "blame" onto others, as opposed to only myself. If I were to only post it here, I would change it to only represent one viewpoint, as opposed to all the "you's" and "I's." As for your poem, I like it! But, I fear I am not knowledgeable to know what you are talking about. Why do you dig with a backhoe in the second stanza, if you have machinery? Why is it yellow?
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May 2, 2013 11:15
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Hello. Here's something lyrical and not very new, but edited recently because my old stuff is gross. I want to become a mainstay here and keep my writing gears well-oiled. Goodnight Loom Alone again, wool- spinning; little things in too big clothes, my thoughts tumble. Alone, and thinking about the moon looking as distant as it does, and about the townhouse over the blue lake. There are little girls crouched port side, watching a procession of nautili burst through the net of nothing night and spend their song, mid flight. It's the sound of hot air balloons that pop in the spring. Or of letters crumpled, one by one, with both hands. I say goodnight. To you, my new moon, when I needed you closer. Goodnight to the room with the door cracked open at something bright. To snakes and rumors of snakes, I say goodnight, barefoot beside the water tower. Goodnight, I say, closing the drawers, shutting the shutters, and pulling the curtain before us all.
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May 4, 2013 10:36
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TerrorTurtle posted:
A backhoe is a piece of machinery.
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May 6, 2013 15:11
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Hey. I really love Pessoa, Cavafy, Lorca, and Rilke. Thought I'd post my work in this thread. Great entries from everyone on the forums. "mountain dew" mountain dew me and you pepsi can girl and man drinking sprite married life soda time that's my rhyme
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May 8, 2013 06:29
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WET BUTT posted:Hey. I really love Pessoa, Cavafy, Lorca, and Rilke. Thought I'd post my work in this thread. Great entries from everyone on the forums. This poo poo is crazy. edit: Are you familiar with https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmCh_0AsEyk ??? That poo poo is crazy. gobbles fucked around with this message at 06:41 on May 8, 2013 |
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May 8, 2013 06:34
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The Poem of the Lich King Power and all that comes with it The heavy burden of a thousand long years A million and more sunrises stretching across a bleeding horizon Cold fear and reckless abandon on a razors edge Hear my song and know why Why you stand before me today Frozen and warped, hands gripping the throne Awaiting your breath to awaken me.
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May 8, 2013 09:20
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Poem for my dad to be read at funeral Who put the bomp, Who put the ram, Who will be left when I bury this man Founding fathers hey, Founding fathers ho, My dad used to like Mr. Show
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May 8, 2013 22:12
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WET BUTT posted:Hey. I really love Pessoa, Cavafy, Lorca, and Rilke. Thought I'd post my work in this thread. Great entries from everyone on the forums. I really like the sprite/life half-rhyme, it tells us that these energy drinks are shortening his life but also are his life. It means like, two things at once. Cool.
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May 9, 2013 05:51
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No Content Two thousand people watched you tape "I miss you Robin" written on paper To the back of your chair, Take off your USB headset, Then disappear. The stream lasted for a while after that. A lot of people left Saying they hoped everything was okay, Asking if anyone knew where you lived, Others waited and talked Until someone complained that ads Were being run over no content And a moderator cut the feed. iodine fucked around with this message at 15:08 on May 16, 2013 |
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May 16, 2013 15:04
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I've been working on a series while riding to work each day, and I've been trying to describe the things I see in perfect detail. While Biking to School A Hasidic man in a beat-up sedan Curved smouldering pipe in his left hand Wheel in his right Turning left off Broadway In the wan dawn light Trees on Nicollet flash into green Hours before, only covered buds In the words of a student, in awe: "loving nature, man" Every day Same place, Same time. A old woman in blue crocs Covered in a hijab Walker, laboring up the Main Street bridge In the sweltering heat.
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May 28, 2013 04:03
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whelp, here goes nothing.. Your friend and your enemy, sitting side by side, each held a plan for the other to have died. Your friend brought wisdom, your enemy brought pain, your friend was calm, and your enemy was insane. But you made a mistake, one you cannot undo, a bond formed between them, the new enemy was you. It was obvious from the start, yet they took you by surprise, the world started fading, you slowly closed your eyes…. And at that momment when you were slain, your friend your enemy became one and the same. Your friend betrayed you, like I said he would. He never thought of you as a friend, then again, who could?
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May 29, 2013 23:53
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another one for good measure.. its body is torn its bones are sand it has no legs and yet it stands its heart beats cold its soul grieves it has no lungs and yet it breathes its hands lay flat its skin peels it has no nerves and yet it feels its eyes are still it never blinks it has no mind and yet it thinks its face in dirt never to be seen it has no mouth and yet it screams its worth unknown it has nothing to give it has no purpose and yet it Lives
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May 29, 2013 23:55
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This thread went in the toilet because everyone started posting poems without posting decent critiques first. You should critique other people's poems. There have been like five poems posted with no critiques and it's retarded because the thread can't function that way.
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May 30, 2013 15:36
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I critiqued several before my last poem and no one responded to it. ;( Ah well, the way of all flesh.
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May 31, 2013 03:09
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Leadhound posted:another one for good measure.. I like this style of poetry in general with very short stanzas. However, I think you could cut all the "and yet"s out, to be honest with you, or maybe replace them with "but." I feel like in general this could be sharpened up but I'm not sure exactly how to do it. I'm hoping to get better with crit so I'm sorry if this is a crappy review. I feel like the piece has some power and you should go more in a stark/minimalist direction with it, if possible. Also I will say that for me the "no mouth/scream" part inevitably brings up thoughts of Harlan Ellison's "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" which makes me feel like its a little cliche.
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Jun 4, 2013 07:21
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I used to write a lot when I was younger but I fell off it for a long time, and I feel like everything is really rusty and clunky now when I try to write. I'm hoping to change that and also improve my critique skills, so I'll try to crit more than I post in this thread if it keeps going. Here's an early draft of one I'm working on: Terrors There are days when the world is a badly-painted toy, flaking and mottled. There are days when everything is hot parking lots and sharp corners and everything is coated with the grease and dust of billions of dead bacteria. There are days where every mouth twists downward. There are merciless bright mornings where you are a foreign parasite in the troubled guts of the world, a fatty tumor, an abscess, a blind, destructive malignancy. There are nights where you lay on your side and feel the slow crawl of your wife's dead doll eyes up your back, and you know if you turn over you will see them wide and painted and disgusted. There are nights where you jerk yourself awake through seven stages of nightmare, where your bedroom is all barely perceptible bells and angry whispers and the air is stirred like someone was just yelling your name in anger right before you woke up. There are times when any object (your hand, a stone, a key) becomes horrible if you stare at it long enough. There are nights where you go to bed sober and find yourself a shitass mean drunk in your dreams, real Jack Torrance poo poo, cruel and stupid like a hooked knife. There are days at work your hand touches the handle off your office door and you suddenly feel both fragile and heavy, a lead crystal vase covered in microfractures, and you think I am already on medication and a few more pieces chip off and clatter to the floor and you realize that in fact there is no real difference between a hawk and handsaw, the gyre is pretty goddamn wide already, and you have lost whatever faith in poison you ever had. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Don't be afraid, I'm pretty sure it sucks AND lacks an ending. I used to be somewhat good at this, I swear...
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Jun 4, 2013 07:27
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This is a poem I wrote in high school for my poetry class. It was based on the form of a Li Young Li poem that I forgot the name of. The inspiration came from visiting Roger Williams University in Rhode Island. gently caress Your 12% Diversity Rate Today I walked, through the halls of Roger Williams, through class rooms filled with white people, buying and selling stock. What could they be learning in a class-less room? What could they possibly feel in a hell so cold? Do they remember their family, their parking lot attendant? Their lust for a better bottom line feels like a junky chasing the green dragon. At this school, what is intellectual is retarded and what is greedy is realistic. Someone tell them to turn off CNBC. My tour guide keeps an index card of notes and struggles to read and walk. She states the six figure salaries of a business major’s life work. Her lust for profit is like mayonnaise: just one color and never enough, saturating crackers. But the flavor remains monotone with each bite insufficient. At this school, what is black is dead and what is white is in the black. Someone should tell them to turn off CNBC. Christ, that admissions rep, keeps talking with his teeth full of facts, a mouth encrusted with saltines, and his breath of Polo, sailing, and profit margins. His love for the school feels like segregation, feels like hangovers, feels like acceptance. At this school, what is different is hypothetical, safe and hypothetical. While the Dean does pilates. Someone tell the Dean to burn his Honda Civic. I’ve had enough of this school that feels like monotony and marketing and vomit.
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Jun 4, 2013 23:10
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Pick a direction and walk, nothing changes. We are in the tomb of pebble-dashed facades and staring windows. The iron gates are locked to the shambling English village (rest in peace.) of lying oaks on mown lawns promising what this country used to be before we by existing killed it. These aren't villages but American suburb sprawl, sandstone walls make picket fences, behind the BMWs and Range Rovers everyone watches CSI. These aren't villages but Russian dolls of Siamese foetuses; we're in the centre in sleeping bags, drinking beer on your parents' patio, heads buzzing for the future watching Youtube and the birds and the sky turn blue. Ceighk fucked around with this message at 01:28 on Jun 9, 2013 |
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Jun 8, 2013 23:36
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Ceighk posted:Pick a direction and walk, nothing changes. Are we in a tomb made up of facades or a tomb for facades? The sentence is vague. Worse, the metaphor, which I think here is supposed to interact with the theme of infrastructure and industry and poo poo overtaking nature, isn't particularly original or executed in a way I find interesting. The second sentence doesn't make very much sense. Is the gate the gate to the village or is it some other gate that has somehow been locked to keep the village out? The phrase feels backwards. I don't see how downed tree on lawns can promise anything or how they have anything to do with what the country used to be, unless the gate or the village is doing the promising, but I can't tell because it's a syntactical mess. Then you try to make the poem turn at the stanza break, except it isn't a turn so much as a "gotcha!" which comes across as cheap and begs the question of why the speaker was confused about if s/he was in an English village or an American suburb. Then of course you do it again, and while the Russian dolls image at least begins to have a little reach, it's mostly unprepared-for and crudely "out there." I'm picturing people ducking behind their cars to watch television, which is pretty funny. I'll give you that. I like the beer, the birds, and even the Youtube because they seem like things that actually exist E: I'm a broken record on this poo poo but please read "Directive" Gaston Bachelard fucked around with this message at 05:43 on Jun 19, 2013 |
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Jun 11, 2013 19:17
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cum stains on her collar black purple lacy garter three dollar beauty parlor stuck up while you call her written for the author cheaper by the hour sloppy twice then sour leave it by the harbor wrap her up in plastic don't do nothin' drastic just give me the facts kid another lost in traffic
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Jun 17, 2013 21:09
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I actually really like this a lot. You establish a consistent tone early on, and there are lots of striking images. You use a lot of adjectives, but in general I think they are well chosen and specific and enhance the imagery. The poem had a potent and visceral effect on me. However, there are a couple times when it seemed like you over-explained or overworked an image and blunted its impact. Also, there were moments when the voice seemed to change abruptly and pulled me out of the moment. I think the long lines fit with the character of the narrator, and you chose good places for enjambment, but keep in mind that it might cause formatting problems for publication (and breaks the tables to boot!). My comments are in bold. J Miracle posted:I used to write a lot when I was younger but I fell off it for a long time, and I feel like everything is really rusty and clunky now when I try to write. I'm hoping to change that and also improve my critique skills, so I'll try to crit more than I post in this thread if it keeps going. It definitely doesn't suck! You have the start of a good poem here. I'm glad you're trying to get back into writing, because it seems like you have talent. DimpledChad fucked around with this message at 01:13 on Jun 18, 2013 |
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Jun 18, 2013 01:10
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DimpledChad posted:I actually really like this a lot. You establish a consistent tone early on, and there are lots of striking images. You use a lot of adjectives, but in general I think they are well chosen and specific and enhance the imagery. The poem had a potent and visceral effect on me. However, there are a couple times when it seemed like you over-explained or overworked an image and blunted its impact. Also, there were moments when the voice seemed to change abruptly and pulled me out of the moment. I think the long lines fit with the character of the narrator, and you chose good places for enjambment, but keep in mind that it might cause formatting problems for publication (and breaks the tables to boot!). Thank you very much for the crit, I agree with most of the suggested changes. However the problem with the ending is that I'm trying to make allusions to specific works about going crazy/things falling apart/etc--there is obviously a risk with allusion, maybe I need to make it more subtle so it can stand on its own better? Shakespeare, Hamlet: "I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw." Yeats, Second Coming: "Turning and turning in the widening gyre/The falcon cannot hear the falconer" Rimbaud, Drunken Morning: "We have faith in poison./We will give our lives completely, every day./FOR THIS IS THE ASSASSIN'S HOUR." There is an earlier attempt at a reference to Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward Angel: "A stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces. Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth." But that was kind of silly and can probably be cut. I'll have to see what I can do about the others though, my sort of implication is that the narrator feels more and more like he's living in a world like the world depicted in the referenced works, if that makes sense.
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Jun 18, 2013 13:46
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Illavick posted:cum stains on her collar Reads like what I'd read on a lyrics sheet for a hip hop mixtape, which is to say you've got an ear and some idea of meter. Problem for me is that the images and occasions feel mostly disparate and rely too heavily on the music. Some folks'll say that a poem is a song, but I think there's a lot more to it than that. Engaging the author is dangerous without some angular way of engaging him/her in BOTH the action of the poem and the action of the poem's utterance. "the harbor" is unspecific. Which one? Certainly, you haven't allowed yourself the metrical room to tell me, but that doesn't keep me from wanting to know. After that you seem confident that you're wrapping up the poem, and introduce a blunt action and a direction that comes from - who?, and then of course the wrap-up "ah ha" resolution. You lose a lot of power in the second half of the poem because your momentum gets the best of you. Don't fear expansion! Figure out your image system and emotional range and weave that in with whatever lyrical rules you'd like to impose. And don't get me wrong. I LOVE poems with rules (we can call this form) and with an ear like yours, you can do a lot more with the discipline you've imposed on yourself.
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Jun 19, 2013 04:16
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Ceighk posted:Pick a direction and walk, nothing changes. This really gets going at the BMWs/Ranger Rovers while all watch CSI. Because there is so much punctuation, the line 'before we by existing killed it.' seems to stand apart from the poem for the obvious missing comas around 'by existing', so be aware you're causing that effect. It's the last 3 lines that kind of ruin things I think. It seems like you cut it short at 'watching Youtube' and then became a bit too forced. It kind of changes the tone of things, for me at least, and if you're going to do that you need a bigger pay off. I think those last 3 lines and the 'by existing' parts are the sore thumbs on this. I am absolutely no expert but I'm giving you what I feel from it. And thanks for the critique Bachelard rear end. It's funny you mention music and especially hip hop because that's exactly where I was when I started writing it but then I ended up in a more film noir-y place. I'm actually very impressed and amazed you managed to pick something that specific out. You know your P's and Q's. I didn't want to use any proper nouns, like say 'down at Boston harbor' because I think it flows better without them. It would be too jarring to throw something that specific in there. And about rules, I insist my poems have rules because that makes it more of a game for me really. I never write the rules ahead of time, I just get an idea in my head, write it down, see what pairs well with it and try to form a style from there. The 6 syllable rule and the 4 line rhyming just kinda started happening and I went with it.
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Jun 22, 2013 02:23
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I would crit, but I don't feel qualified. Maybe later in the thread. Anyway, here's something to annoy the lot of you. Something I Never Told You I felt like driving off the overpass I would have smiled careening down perhaps laughed in relief The only reason I didn't was because you were with me And I did not want to make this decision for you as well That's why I said nothing and crawled into the bathtub and wept that night
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Jun 22, 2013 04:48
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HelmutVonSchmeller posted:I would crit, but I don't feel qualified. Maybe later in the thread. How much William Carlos Williams have you read? I'd take another look at your favorites, or a first if you happen to be in that happy situation. Check out what he does with his lines and I think you'll see how this poem can be managed with even more economy. I'm not crazy about the poem's conceit, and less its ending. Feels like you ran away from all the dramatic stakes of implicating another in a suicide by simply admitting your speaker's understanding of what he's up to. The end is ho-hum not because it establishes distance between the event and the utterance (actually this is one of the strongest moves in the poem) but because it just feels so easy. What's that scene look like? Did your speaker crawl into an empty bathtub or did he submerge into a cold layer of grey water as the faucet sputtered, slowly heated, and burned his feet?
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Jun 24, 2013 04:58
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Too much crit and not enough poetry. Nazi Mollusk Dark spots, toes, a heel, prints on the green. Faded from the morning's mist, Footprints bare in the pale morning light wander across my view and into the forest. An old goddess, stripped and forgotten, now lost in a world where she has no meaning. Like a whore in a concentration camp, she's less. Making her way through life, death, fearing nothing, only a faint hope. Discovery is what drives them. Like the veins in the meat of a clam; tendrils ripple and shimmer as it's stroked, quivering as someone touches and remembers these lost lives. Ripples in flesh like waves of light and cloud as the cold sun rises on faint footprints, making their way across a dewy green.
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Jun 24, 2013 07:30
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Bi-la kaifa posted:Too much crit and not enough poetry. I don't think there were whores in concentration camps. I like rhythm of lines 1-3, then you lose it (and maybe not coincidentally, where I lose interest) in lines 4-7. After that you recover rhythmically and then lines 11-12, that's about dicks but I guess you want it to be about nostalgia and loss. The diction is serious throughout except the words "whore" and "meat," I'd say those are the problem areas at any rate. I leave with a clear vision of a clam and a set of footprints, but I want to know what both of them are doing other than being. I'm not sure what you're driving at, here. Vision of footprints, then a disgraced goddess, then a simile ("Like ... a clam") which is a vehicle without a tenor. I can't really tell what your thrust is. Not that it needs one, but consider the message. Also, let's think about the title. I think you're torn between being flippant or lyrical, and once you make that choice (whichever it is) the piece should come together.
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Jun 25, 2013 04:13
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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.pre:The Weaver’s Threads I read in many ways, in many ways I have a dream to tell: alight, O line, to speak of mom of dad, the addict who ebbs, five strains interred, Philomel who dies who flows, in one a river tongueless, mouthless steady voice: fretful; darkling, thrashing send me home.
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Jun 25, 2013 04:19
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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 liked this one. I have no idea what it's about though. Just feelings and images I guess. But I don't really feel like it's random either. It just only shows parts of a picture.
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Jun 25, 2013 06:20
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Here's one I've been working on for a few days. I have no clue what to call it. It's about my favourite subject, the apocalypse. sunlight tears through old floor boards and shadows dance on tin roof tops a reckoning feared constant no one ever really knew and the clock runs like my thoughts what has seven heads and brings about the end? wise men feel it; old bones aching before storm clouds there are no provisions that can save you from judgement great trumpets sound and clocks tick relentless marching on midnight! will the Son rise on Golgotha before the toll of midnight comes? oil turns to rain food turns to cancer water rises people gently caress like there's no tomorrow we fed the fire now we pray for rain rein, who will hold it when hooves meet earth? Illavick fucked around with this message at 13:01 on Jun 26, 2013 |
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Jun 26, 2013 12:57
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Illavick posted:Here's one I've been working on for a few days. I have no clue what to call it. It's about my favourite subject, the apocalypse. I like it the imagery really works here, and some of the wordplay is really clever. I like the comparison between Rain and Rein. My one caution, the Christian apocalypse has been written about many time in poetry. While this is in your own voice, I feel almost as though, I don't know, you don't put your own spin on it? Maybe you can take the clock metaphor a bit further? It's a nitpick, honestly. I'd like a critique on thisun. Too cliché?: College Degree A child's shallow chalk drawing Splattered On the concrete The beak Frozen open An impotent plea for the mother The purple intestines Caked on the sidewalk Broil in the sunlight The soft down Matted and blood-stained Flutters in the breeze A doodle of death In the shadow Of the custodial tower above Zack_Gochuck fucked around with this message at 13:34 on Jun 26, 2013 |
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Jun 26, 2013 13:29
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Illavick, I don't quite agree with Zack_Gochuck. Try to work yourself away from cliches. A lot of the images and things in the poem behave in ways that don't feel especially original or exciting. I've read shadows dancing, bones aching, trumpets sounding, "there's no tomorrow," etc. Plus, what I think you're hoping is witty and cunning about that last example is, kind of, but it comes across as a one-note jab with no substantial resonance otherwise. Who is "you?" Is it different from "we?" What if you chose a concrete place or image from which to observe the event or result of the event and leaned a little heavier on the eye instead of flimsy similes and puns? Gaston Bachelard fucked around with this message at 15:05 on Jun 26, 2013 |
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Jun 26, 2013 14:53
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rosselas posted:I liked this one. I have no idea what it's about though. Just feelings and images I guess. But I don't really feel like it's random either. It just only shows parts of a picture. Good, perfect, it's the introductory piece so it should stir up some thoughts but not answer many questions. Tell me, did you see that it reads straight down in addition to across?
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Jun 26, 2013 17:51
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That was the best part of the poem. Not crazy about the last phrase but, like, whatever.
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Jun 26, 2013 21:20
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Zack_Gochuck posted:I like it the imagery really works here, and some of the wordplay is really clever. I like the comparison between Rain and Rein. My one caution, the Christian apocalypse has been written about many time in poetry. While this is in your own voice, I feel almost as though, I don't know, you don't put your own spin on it? Maybe you can take the clock metaphor a bit further? It's a nitpick, honestly. The metaphor in this poem is particularly heavy-handed. From "shallow chalk drawing" to "doodle of death" the poem's unwieldy imagery gets in the way of the purpose of such a short piece (to be sharp, surprising, or witty). The connections between stanzas are both exceedingly shallow and opaque. The poem transforms the "child" to a "beak frozen open," while as a reader I understand the metaphorical turn I'm bored with the unsurprising fulfillment of the language. A child is a baby bird - such an image already exists in my mind, and this poem hasn't added anything by conjuring it. From here on the poem reaches for a grotesquery that is outside of its grasp. "Purple intestines" and "soft down / matted and blood-stained" are unearned images (ignoring the, again, heavy-handed nature of the first). I have no idea why a child drawing with chalk has resulted in a rumination on death. The turn happened far too soon (between the 2nd and 3rd stanzas) and left me bored and confused as the poem struggled its way to the expected "custodial tower" and the inept "doodle of death." My advice is to start over by asking yourself why are you writing this poem. code:
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Jun 28, 2013 21:45
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It really can't be overstated how putrid "doodle of death" is.
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Jun 28, 2013 22:20
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Thanks for the honest critique, guys. I think this one may be headed to the scrap heap.
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Jun 29, 2013 00:53
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deptstoremook posted:Good, perfect, it's the introductory piece so it should stir up some thoughts but not answer many questions. Tell me, did you see that it reads straight down in addition to across? I figured that out right away, because it's called "I read in many ways, in many ways" and the first couple words in both directions made sense together. I liked the vertical way better than the horizontal.
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Jun 29, 2013 15:48
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