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Every poem writes back.

The poems you write, write you.

>>23957658
The rabbits here are using crossbows and agricultural field implements during their siege. This means that it is obviously a peasant uprising. And we all know what rabbits and castles mean?

is it typical of poems to rhyme a word with a plural
>flight
>nights
or should i find a way to make "night" work instead

>>23957887
This is good

>>23957846
>is it typical of poems to rhyme a word with a plural
No

You've returned to the traffic jam conversations
With eyes turned to the sky you've exclaimed: -Salvation!
And then all hands joined in despondency
The hills beneath the eyes of God, from where the sand flows

Rest, the hero dies
Rest, the man is born
That which I am most proud to say I possess
Being abducted, like the virgin of eyes
Being pulled back to the surface just as I got used to the sea

The future is your circus
You are not very good at selling your product
Do not let the self leak in the presence of the one thousand siblings
To foresee rain, follow that cloud
To foresee tragedy, follow that man

I want to feel what is felt when each wound heals itself
The little me in you makes me want to destroy the rest and the whole
Your face will be remembered
You will be welcome
And you will be unwelcome

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Poetry is for nonses and other deviants

>>23957966
And fellatio

>>23957887
Pretty good, except for the last line

how is this possible cryingemoji.jpg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gToj6SLWz8Q

>>23958512
Can't load the link

>>23958553
youtube Richard Burton reads the haunting poem 'The hound of Heaven' by Francis Thompson

Wrote this for my novel today. Translated into English from the original. I used to write poetry and verse dramas. Now I’m trying to transition to novels. I make some of my characters speak a sort of poetic prose (I even compose many of the dialogues in sketches that look like metrical verse), but most of the narration and exposition is written with a very simple and down to earth language.

“You know, I have a personal philosophy. I believe that a truly well-lived life has several births. Most of the time, this happens bit by bit, and on rare occasions, in a single explosion, but eventually, the consciousness we are inhabiting now will transform; it will tear one of its cocoons, break one of its chrysalises, open one of its sarcophagi, and, when this birth of an already-born finally happens, we look around, and behold, the world is now different… A human consciousness is a procession of rebirths maturing into rebirths, a perpetual halfway state between caterpillar and butterfly, a hybrid between shell and wings… There are many, many of these hybrids which, together, from eclosion to eclosion, create a person’s consciousness over the course of their days. You tread the punishments and contemplations of life and learn its lessons, a learning that is the kicking, punching, and elbowing against the limits of what you are, and so you keep fighting, until something makes you realize that the old cocoon has torn: a great loss, the end of a long relationship, becoming a parent, suffering an existential crisis, perhaps simply looking at yourself in the mirror one day or catching yourself smiling or crying over something that previously meant nothing… One day you notice that the old cocoon was abandoned. Then, in your naivety, you think, “I am a butterfly now, and I can swim through the air with my wings.” And off you go, testing your wings, only to discover, after a while, that your flight still crawls and eats cabbage, and that if you decide to follow the path of feverish struggle against the membrane of your own horizon, much stronger wings may germinate to navigate even vaster skies. You discover that the wings of muscular pedigree and the latifundial skies of your current self, which give you so much pride, this infinity and its key, may well be nothing more than a little tricycle going in circles in a small neighborhood square when compared to the flights and atmospheres that sleep in the future.”

>>23958593

This is also from the novel. It’s also translated from my native language. I wrote it last week.


Preacher Parlafalsa continued to look at the crucifix. He ignored Angelo for a few moments, as if he were sitting alone in that room, but after a while he said:
– It’s like staring at a stuffed bird until reason finally gets tired and, yawning, pretends to forget that the dry corpse it’s looking at will never open its wings and sing, – Preacher Paralafalsa laughed at his own comment, as if he had heard a joke, though there was not the slightest sign of joy in his laughter. – Every day, I get up to work as the funeral director of infinity. On my stainless steel table, I have the dead body of paradise. It’s up to me to paint its cheeks of darkness with the joyful cries of the stars and the smiling sapphire of the healthy skies; to delicately dissolve the lichen of shadows that suffocates the ancestral light in its eyes; to comb out from its curls the dust of oblivion; to fertilize its hollow lungs with all the prayers that the blood of true love oxygenated and with the growl of ecstasy of the prophets; to soak its flesh, its dry and shriveled carcass, with the sugary oil of tenderness and the nourishing fat of consolation; to inject into the nebulous marrow of its flaccid bones a vital pulse as sweet as sugarcane juice and date honey; to perfume it with the musk that the rut of the seraphim heat spray; to expel the gnawing worms of doubt, to exile the crepuscular flies of disbelief, and to gather the lice and mites of a thousand despairs. Once my work is done, I sit the corpse on a throne, like a shopping mall Santa Claus, and say to the lines of believers, my illusion-starving flock: "Behold, the Heavens are alive! Their arms are open to you. You are not orphans. Come, come sit on the lap of the absolute, the lap of eternal grace."

>>23958593
I feel like you'd like the word metanoia if you don't already know it

>>23958684
Honestly didn’t knew that word. Thanks for the tip.

>>23958603
and it hits you from all sides
thin air breaks
and a bystander once, now knows exactly whats being breathed in
what the ground is at foot
and whose mouth slacked agape really informs

It hits you right into the right socket
from all sides it punctures
and begins the burning to liquid dripping

(still developing the poem, is it any good)

>>23958702
didn't mean to reply to that, misclick

>>23958699
It's a good album name too
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZrFll4dlgE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyaATYrwdds

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idk how to write
open to criticism
inb4
i'm not experienced at all
and
>"with hate .... .... my voice"
is jointed so read it on one breath smoothly like "hate" also belong to second sentence.
if you have any question - ask it

>>23957887
hard to read but maybe it's my problem

>>23957965
idk need more rhymes and conected lines. don't have feel of flow.

>>23958593
hard to catch the rhythm
maybe edit lines better or change few words for better rhyme

>>23958739
The homonym switch up is a bit hard to read but it's something you can blame on the speaker not the text

>>23958739
>hard to catch the rhythm
maybe edit lines better or change few words for better rhyme
was for this >>23958702
SORRY my bad

>>23958757
No problem

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>>23958476
I was not a fan either but had no better idea when I wrote it

My trick is that I read the first and last lines of your poem and if they suck I don't bother with the middle.

>>23959210
can be right but also check the 4 lines after the 4th line. first 4 lines are like a name, you can drop it.

TRUTH & THE DENIAL THEREOF

“Ignorance, whence pain,” a miscreant told me long ago, and thus I sought this mount to scale it. What I found at the summit was not Heaven, and no epiphany awaited me here. Lifting a hand to my brow, I tried to block out the Sun, who, in his harshness, afforded no illumination; but I was become purblind by his rays.

I prayed to my idol, and unwittingly banished him forever. I fell to my knees as his ghost withdrew from me, my beating heart left forsaken in my frame. I was no longer an earthen creäture, but a graceless beast, some naked wolf borne of an unmade world of flesh and soil. I lamented my claws, and cried out for aught to save me.

For months, I implored the Sun to set, but my pleas were not acknown. My faults—every scratch and scar on my body—were each itself an outrage to the mind, and excruciated me. I gnashed my teeth and tore my hair, and blood fornicated with tears in mine eyes.

At length, my remorse dried and fermented into bitter resolve in the unfeeling gaze of the Sun, my judgement growing up a poisonous fruit in his light; and these were my sustenance. I felt the aking, the burning hole inside me, and I slowly came to see the necessary path. Only through that learnt habit had I hesitated for so long a time despite my suffering.

O Fool who was I, hearken not the words of the miscreant! Thus I speak at the cliff of reason as I look down to a world of comfortable madness, the winds of delusion and whim at my back urging me ever onward to my fall. Those who find me will wonder only why I bothered to climb so high.

>>23959343
This isn't poetry

>>23959353
Careful examination will show that it is prose-poëtry, as prose has no regular rhythm.

I wish I could fly
So I wouldn't die.
Then I would be
A really cool guy.
But though in your eye,
You just judge my
Disbility
To eat a whole pie
Of love you deny.

Give me a pie chart
Of your whole heart
So I know the art
Of tearing apart
Your heart instead
Of mine.
</3

I think I saw and felt
The last spark of my youth
The moment I stepped out of the
Opera Metro station
In Madrid

For a brief few seconds it flickered
The smallness of everything on Spanish streets
The smell of cigarettes smoked indoors
The tiny elevator, so foreign
The estascy of new folds on fresh spirit
Pure experience before it becomes decrepit memory

I was 21 again
When I saw cervecerías
Closed for their afternoon siesta
It has been so long
I felt the anticipation of a first drink
A flash of my former self
Less jaded, less bitter
I was going to be a doctor
I had friends again
And this was before they just became drinking buddies
True friends
By the time I entered the apartment i was me again
I sat on the balcony and hoped the feeling would come back
A pathetic starving fisherman
Throwing his line into the long polluted sea
We can never go back, and even if we could
We shouldn’t
we might get glimpses of how we were
The glimpse is what’s good for us
To live in it would make us too soft
I wonder if all memories, good and bad
Are painted in divine rays of light when looked on from afar
A neurobiological trick
To make a sterile hospital deathbed
Or a gory end on the steppe
A tolerable finale
so long as we can think of youth and home

the last lick of flame
Before the smoke comes
Bleeding out like a severed artery

I think this may just be what I tell myself
The times really were that good.

>>23957654
Im burning up inside
Burning
And these flames will scorch my insides
And char my heart black
Spitting sparks and cinders to thouse around
I'll ignite a wall of fire
Incinerating myself in misery

Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;
It would not out at windows nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.
(…)
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw,
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips
And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.
(…)
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd,
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou seest is but a clod
And module of confounded royalty.

Forrest Gump
A testicle lump
Donald Trump
Have a bump

bump

>>23959854
Yikes
>>23959741
Not bad but you should remove first and last stanzas. A poem isn’t an essay and doesn’t need a conclusion and thesis statement lol.

Rip my heart from its socket.
Eat my brains with a spoon.
Shoot me on top a rocket,
aim it right at the moon.

Fuck this gay earth—I'm leaving,
better dead than a NEET.
To all my friends: goodbye,
I'm happy we got to meet.

>>23962834
Thanks for the feedback. I think you’re right about canning the first and last stanzas

>>23957654
---- Solaria ---
9599
finesse

Swift and easy on the phone
As the feeling of pleasant drives

Where green canopies give way to
An air of shining lakes,

Remote inferences, I yield asides welcome
Almost anywhere

Conditions lack severity
Close to home, among a panoply

Of sisters, and a father with a spy's sense of fun,
A Lucio of atmospheres

Ordinarily urbane as font critiques,
Sightly engineering,

Music leaning to the synesthetic
As a matter of course,

Inevitable as archives beyond all accounting.

>>23957654
---- Solaria ---
9600
Concerning Ultraviolet Lithography

Or the chick next door who named a feral cat
Henry VIII, his obliviousness

To the on and off flashes of the porch light
While I watch for the slightest reactions to it, as if

I weren't there at all despite
Symphonic music in the head, nuclear

Infrastructure, etc.

>>23958593
This was nice

Between a patient and the catheter
Between the wall and the sledgehammer
Between the product and factory line
There's a lot of blood
There's a lot of shit
and dirt
and tears
But there's no money
believe me I checked

My wage graces my callouses
From time to time
But someone reaches for it
before I get to really press down
Then I get to feel the fruit of my labor
Hard skin and scarred fingers

And all the saints and priests and preachers
Already divided for themselves
The pie in the sky I've been told I'll get
They say that money is the eye of the devil
But he sure as hell isn't looking at me either

>>23964425
Love this.

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Shilling my first poetry book. A few typos here and there I still have to fix but would love some feed back. Will post a few of the better poems if there is interest.


https://www.amazon.com/Youth-Live-Pure-Spirit-Chapbook/dp/B0D7VRZX75/ref=mp_s_a_1_6?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.q22RG4ntyDyOWZqtCN5Dn7p6Fgqa6pi47OXTsV2bNQJqxp42jN7o5AbWIxEXV1vXo-UyLDDmNcFXuesjgwGt3OnyeZUinuFbG5Ww83rfOc1XPG9lygPNm3Cxa1M_4Pz62sYXf2YG12Wxi6V7xTERfWYsFq8tdiXaJAet809b4H_Na4fCKKEQmOHAr3YPGjMU_9T43IirbfZrAkBU7PHyhA.mNWD9KJ7TTWOuHj49Ms9HaOJ_uVV_OBznM-Iyj_lo7M&dib_tag=se&qid=1731375678&refinements=p_27%3AWallace+Mack&s=books&sr=1-6&text=Wallace+Mack

Nietzsche saw the horse
& greeted it as the boss

he was secretly Welsh
pockets full of Plutonic wealth

Nietzsche drooping
at the store
what a soothing
thought:
fr fr forevermore
hearts in the world before

Nietzche in a diaper
shidding bits of sanity
blizzard and the lightning
shedding his '''humanity'''


Nietzsche, Nietzsche...

on his throne
mummified / to a white bone
to a state
that's un-known

'God is Death'
is a subtle joke:

a dimension like memes or the letter Bet
O, if only you could believe
& love blind unaware of debts

like the child
who whispered
'God is Death'
while all life has withered
left end to right end

to a spooky season
this november's dark
when the ghosts are gath'ring
in those muddy minds


but it's not what you think..
and not what you thought
thinking is obsolete
once you 'he bought'

you might piss in a sink
while no one is watching
you might ready a flagship
to sail the nothing

as the flying dutchman still sails the seas
you might gift him your soul for a chain of keys

to unlock your ropes that are weighting down
hope could never have place in a corpse of a clown

telling jokes to himself on the brink of abyss
do not listen beware better shield thine own ears

for it's only a vision
crystal balls of his spittle
that are running like rivers from the mouth of ol' Friedrich
'we are none
but beware
once you're gone
it is where
rests old rumoured
mythical
horsened stair..'

it's a cellar perhaps
or a humour of gallows
life is only a chance
underneath snow is falling.

The apes that haunt this board
At last have killed my mind
And made me deaf and blind.
When art's been whore'd, it shines no more -
So search! but never find.

this thankless craft made free through resignation
against the tide the blindness acts salvation
when rotted sentiment is all dried up
the shade just walks away like that

words won't do justice to the truth of it
for only courage can the weakness quit

the gone the lonely mired in the dirt
are closer to the memory of god

their skulls and bones are lined up in the ground
aligning signature right underneath the mound.

>>23965282
So trve

Is poetry dead?

>>23965145
tl;dr but would probably sound great over a soundcloud type beat

What orchids do in courtyards:—
We’ve all heard the sultry rumours
About those nymphonic strumpets:—
Getting around with soiled bloomers—
They’re worse than angel trumpets!

What orchids do in courtyards;
In parks, and red-light greenhouses,
I would rather not rabble on:—
Stripping both their buds and blouses
For the gardens of Babylon!

What orchids do in courtyards:—
It’s too obscene to state how those
Horti-naughty nursery nubiles,
With fragrant floral pantyhose,
Allure bees with their violet wiles.

What orchids do in courtyards—
It isn’t lady-like at all,
How they go about their conduct.—
Beetle boyfriends sully their shawl,
And earthworms confirm they’re well-fucked!

>>23966297
Yes

>>23966801
>>23966786
wow i think i'm in love with you do you want to move into a cabin by the seaside and drink cream soda together

>>23966817
What does this mean, lol. I guess I’m flattered?

>>23966821
i never learned how to express admiration in a healthy way

>>23966825
I’m flattered you’ve found my drivel worth admiring! I’ve been a little desperate for feedback lately, lol.

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This was a poem I wrote in a bpd obsession phase over a mentally ill 8/10 who used me as a rebound for a month


I could pray for hours
Even needing no ablution
I'd study that doctrine
Even without salvation

Because my miracle is being here
With my Eucharist on earth
I'd go without absolution
To follow my messiah dear

You could call me pious
To my angel on Earth
Or you could call it blasphemy
To worship one of flesh and blood

You could be speaking in tongues
I'd never even notice
Brand me sinner with searing prongs
Wouldn't take away my bliss

Say wanting your forbidden fruit
Is reason to go to hell. I'd say-
'Love thy neighbor as thyself'
I love neither as much as thee

Even the fruit of the spirit would be
Fire and brimstone without you near me
I'd walk through it for miles
To be with you in apostasy

They say the lord is agape
While I'd join you in arianism
Call that sacrilege
I'd call that my ordination

I'd be anointed your believer
Seeking atonement in your arms
From your warmth I'd discover
My atonement in your many charms

So take me to hell
Drag me down with you
We could burn together
Before I'd turn to another

My doctrine coming from your lips
My amen when we are entwined
Allegory in your every touch
My waking moments only yours

Worship you now and forever
Even if you were no savior
This is true devotion
This is true divinity - Here on earth

>>23966817
Cream soda by a seaside cabin sounds lovely, by the way.

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>Check out poetry from 2020-2022
>Every single one of them is about quarantine or covid killing someone they know

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How many times am I meant to read this until I like it? I feel somehow guilty after finishing it and concluding yet again, it is surface level pseud drivel

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>>23966834

Poetry has become much more fun since discovering Phonetics.

You are not a man.
You have no soul.
No feelings,
No love,
No goal.

Your personal growth
Is mine to behold,
You are a bank account
And nothing more.

>>23966930
1001 times

>>23966930
You're now ready for Waste Paper by Lovecraft

>>23959529
>A really cool guy
>Cool
>Cool
>Cool
Please never use it again

>>23964425
>There's a lot of blood
>There's a lot of shit
>and dirt
2/10

>And all the saints and priests and preachers
>Already divided for themselves
>The pie in the sky I've been told I'll get
>They say that money is the eye of the devil
8/10

In my cool guy eye
A reflection of the sky
Tells a story, a lie
I'm a really cool guy

sulpher is a deamon now
all it takes is a pinticle
encircled asian lucifer
still gotta have a licence for this shit tho
not enough deamons to go around
lilith^tm
Azazel^TM
N/A pentagon
o.k.
now pay me scro

Cooked and peeled and deveined shrimp
Shall make a lovely meal!
I'll kick my feet and flip past violence
On the TV reel.

Mechanized obliteration,
-- Get it while it's hot!
It's sad, but what's a man to do?
Oppression is our lot.

In a doorway frame, he stands,
Half-caught between worlds, a stranger in his own hands,
An echo of dread as Sunday night nears,
With George Page’s voice filling cracks in his fears.

Marco speaks of blurred impressions, diseased sight,
Claims Monet’s mind frayed in half-sickly light—
"Do we look too long and see as they see?"
Through retinas cracked by Europe’s industry.

Somewhere, a man is trapped under Southern skies,
Debt-shackled, yoked to the rich man's lies;
And Florida's rise grips each stranger, friend,
In post-apocalyptic antics that mock our end.

Acne as a weapon, pigs as the shamed,
Twisted histories of merchants' gains,
And under all—this lurking sense
That nothing's as it seems, and our fate's past tense.

Nostalgia for ads that break harsh Nature’s pull,
A story of humankind humiliated, full
Of mimicry, memory, and existential jest—
Each tale a glimpse of you, in a world’s unrest.

>>23957678
jews

>>23966786
>Frank Frazetta, Death - The Sound of Perseverance, Clark Ashton Smith

Pleasantly purple. Now do an ENTASIS sequel.

>>23957678
In this context they're the contrast to snails which represent the scribes and the slow moving church.
Two aristocratic brothers, one becomes a knight, the other becomes a monk and scribe. The scribe is a snail, slow, steady and armoured with the shield of God. The knight is a rabbit, fast and exposed, lives fast and dies young.
It's a meme among the scribes that frames them as the cooler guys of the two. Usually in the margins these memes are drawn around a tree which represents God's creation. The rabbit/knight is on a leaf while the snail/scribe is closer to the trunk and often defending it against the rabbits.

>>23968337
Wow, bretty damn good, anon

In the shadowed woods where Fuji stands,
A silent place, of ancient lands.
A forest dense, where whispers lie,
Where branches loom beneath the sky.

He walked alone in shadows deep,
A place where secrets softly seep.
A life unknown, a soul unseen,
Lost in that haunted, misted green.

Through tangled paths and trees that weep,
In sorrowed hush, the spirits keep.
His story blurred, his name untold,
In death's embrace, the forest cold.

A stranger came, with camera’s gaze,
In search of sights to shock and daze.
But there, upon the forest floor,
A quiet life was seen no more.

The world watched on in fractured thought,
The weight of pain too often fought.
A moment passed, a memory stirred—
To hold respect, let hearts be heard.

So now we leave this space in peace,
Where lost souls find a soft release.
Beneath the branches, still as night,
A spirit fades into the light.

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>>23968837

>>23957654
the fuck is this satanist shit? fuck the thread maker and his kikery

You are alone, alone and afraid, a loner frayed with angst and doubt, whispering little lies into a mind disinterested in the philosophy of objective truth – Let us repair the rogue synapse with pithy reassurance; that love is but a mis-transliteration; that understanding is but a miscomprehension; that being held is but a profound ignorance of atomic theory. You are a fool, playing connect-the-dots with the cosmos, stencilling in fantastic shapes to colour in the dark, drawing distinction between emptiness and nothingness, separating thought from fact as if a reflection were not but a mirrored reality. You are alone, but love the little lies; love the illusion; love the woman which will believe the wildest of fiction; love the life lived alone; love the beginning and the end; love the contradiction.

>>23968842
i wasnt sure anyone would get it.

The Greeks thought poetry was supposed to uplift, guys

by the word minds rise
from ashes of cities wrecked
an ascension, a surprise
my penis fully erect

Sheeeit—this a poem n' shit—my nigga.
Freestyle—off the top of the dome—my nigga.

Stolen rolly on my wrist—I'm icin' out.
Asian bitch all on my dick—I'm ricin' out.

Pull up on da opps and let the blickey sang.
Drive through KFC and eat a chicken wang.

Peace.

Age without wisdom
Youth without vitality
Plenty without prosperity
Advancement without knowledge
Love without compassion
Anger without justice
Timidity without modesty
Men without chests
Without hearts
Without meaning
Without purpose
Life without dignity

>>23973387
terrible.

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Two rough fragments of a larger piece I’ve been trying to figure out recently. Is this any good at all?

BUMP

>>23973415
Would've put it in the wwoym thread if it was up

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>>23957887
Fantastic except I don't like
>You will see me, I will meet you
>>23966441
Gave me a chuckle. Should be "their shawls" in the second to last line.
>>23973387
Trite

>>23975112
>Should be "their shawls" in the second to last line.
Nta anon but it fucks their rhyming scheme to change it and shawl doesn't need to be plural just because the beetles are. You've seen those videos

>>23975112
>Fantastic except I don't like
Yeah it was bugging me >>23958920

>>23968837
"ChatGPT, write a poem about that time Logan Paul recorded a dead body in Japan"

>>23975652
lol yes, that's what happened.

>>23975112
>>23974873
again,

I squeeze my fingertips together—
the phalanges of the fore and thumb.
What I've been searching for forever,
is surely in there—I hear the hum.

>>23957654
What's the lower right one with the six points?

Is this an attempt at reviving wr*te what's on your mind?

>>23977490
Poetry gen's a lot older than that. Try not to get the mods to mistakenly delete it, because it's one of the few vaguely competent /lit/ threads left

>>23977495
Roger roger

In shadowed glen, where whispered winds do sigh,
I gazed upon her, raven-haired, as night
Her dark tresses did in silent folds entwine,
A veil of grief beneath the waning light.
Her eyes, deep pools of sorrow’s sacred grace,
In which my heart did drown and lose its way—
Yet still, she passed, and left no trace, no space
Where love might bloom, nor hope might dare to stay.

O cruel and fleeting visage, far too bright!
How did thy gaze ignite this wretched flame?
Thine heart, though wrapped in midnight’s quiet might,
Knows not the ache that burns with thee my name.
For in thy silence, like a deathless curse,
I see my soul laid bare, and all its worth.
Yet thou, unmoved, dost glide as dreams disperse,
And leave me lost, adrift, and filled with dearth.

Thine every step, a hymn of cold refrain,
A song of loss I’ll never know nor sing.
And still, in shadows, I shall wear my chain,
Bound to the hope that thou, for once, might bring
A fleeting glance, a spark, a touch, a breath—
But ah, unkind, thou offer’st naught but death.

>>23977490
This poem sucks.

>>23977501
Also this one

Ah, to plant and watch the earth awaken,
With hands that touch the soil and hearts unshaken!
No need for screens that buzz or wires that hum—
Here in the garden, joy’s the only sum.

The sun, a golden smile upon my face,
The flowers bowing, dancing in their grace.
No need for gadgets, clocks, or endless news,
Just nature’s chorus, soft and full of hues.

The robin’s song, the rustling of the leaves,
A simple joy that nothing else achieves!
No cynic’s snare, no tech that twists the mind,
For here, with life, my soul is intertwined.

The seeds I sow with love, they sprout and bloom,
A gift of earth, dispelling doubt and gloom.
Each day anew, a playful breeze to chase—
What joy to live, to work, and find my place!

So let the world rush on with gears and steel,
While here in quiet joy, my heart can heal.
The garden calls, a green and lively song,
Where joy is simple, and the days are long!

On the afternoon of June 23 2013
or maybe even earlier
I disappeared without a trace.
Name: Bishop, Joseph
Born: London, 1999
Height: 184 cm Eyes: Blue Hair: Brown
though I still write on passport forms black.
In summer I'm found wearing a blue jacket with white patterns,
black shoes, for winter - a jumper, scarf, coat, gloves
business suit - only when absolutely necessary.
As a rule, I'm reserved and friendly
I attack only if I'm provoked
and even then - not always in time - and not always the right person.
I have no visible distinguishing marks.
Lately, I've allegedly been seen in Szigliget, in Edinburgh,
in Harlech, in Southend,
in Havana, in Heiligendamm, in Madrid, in Budapest,
in my office, in the supermarket, at the doctor's, on the street,
late at night in Soho, the Central line,
on the seashore, in the cemetery,
yet I'm unable to find myself.
If anybody has information concerning me
please notify me.

>>23974103
strange seeing an uppercase 'i' in a cummings poem

>>23973387
work beyond employment, trust beyond allegiance, love beyond enjoyment, life beyond existence, death beyond decease

>>23977501
Good
>>23977512
Great

>poetry gen on page 10
i haven't been
a Very Good animal
contemplating calcifying
into the buddha nature
of a rock
becoming like the caudex
unfinished wood block
the tumour in the book
encroaching on history
erasing everything
post picasso moon

maybe next year
i'll be less of a freak
or a ghost

inactivity doesn't wash time away

>>23978481
dehydrate back into minerals
a lifelong walk to the same exact spot

>>23978501
precious nitrates
potash and lye
hoarded for so long
now a useful fertilizer

>>23978501
crystals laid standing into a pattern of a stellar temple
dead shitposters are the most valuable vessels

cosmic winds
find ways to weave their twinned
selves
making a dna-mod
babbling among themselves
speech is not what we are so accustomed to
speech drips from an alive mouth
making a lake
or a river
fate is gnashing of teeth on the Promethean liver
mapped to our plateau
it is a mythic memory teaching the ways of before
the other horizon
opening skies
all the while

dead know no enmity
nor strife
passing through
straight as a steel knife
blind and benevolent
to an age of mammoths
those stone age elephants

pillars of salt stood there until waking up in another
unfamiliar world

>anons respond to my poem with poems
>googling searching it like I would other anons tells me it's a koan
>autocorrect corrects koan to moan
:3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmUZ6nCFNoU

I didn't expect you to like me,
But no ones hated me quite like you.
Sure I've gotten you into trouble
And lost you there a friend or two.

I'm only looking out for you-
I think some part of you sees.
As despite everything I've done
You still can't depart from me.

So why not give it a shot?
Say the word and I'll pull the lever.
I'll show the way, if you let me,
To somewhere we can be us forever.

If there could be a god of posting
No better be it goddess toasty

And every post in better faith
She would salute with feasts of grace

I strode across the neighbourhood
And asked her to inspire good

Within my soul revive the light
Her dew of heavenly delight!

>>23979108
Inspire me good has a better rhythm

Does anyone have advice on writing Romanticist poetry about landscapes? So far I only wrote about emotions. But I feel like I have to utilize a whole different set of vocabulary to describe nature in detail

>>23979326
Do you know what the plants you're describing are called and when they're in season? There's also local variation to tree and plant and bird meanings and symbolism.

>>23979329
I forgot about symbolism in nature, you’re right. This sounds like a really big challenge. I might try to start describing only one piece of nature, like the waves or a meadow while reading up on what different flowers and animals mean along the way

>>23979340
It's better to do it with real plants too. Unfortunately there's less chance of seeing them now, but even things like weeds have times where they flower or rot, and it's much easier to suggest a season if you've seen the cycle yourself. There's probably some localized flora and bird books you could take out with you to familiarise yourself with them. It's not just the intellectual side, because immersing yourself in nature's extremes is peak sublime seeking romanticism.

>>23979345
Good idea, thank you for the advice.

For a thousand years
The mountains watched
Stripped down for gears
Shepherds job botched

>Advice to a Young Romantic in search of Nature
Wear a good coat,
and boots, a hat and scarf.
Bring a snack or two.

Bring a thermos of a hot drink
to feel the radiant bliss
of not losing fingertips.

A small notebook and
pen will do.

Bring a lack of light,
and listen for:
the quiet beings regretting a foot astray;
the nervous twitch of a twig amiss;
the wind direction changing the
piercing cold in your eardrum
to a higher pitch.

Bring your shadow
and hide it in a tree.
Whistle a song in case of bears;
Leaving being pursued to Shakespeare.

Bring patience and
a watchful eye
for light and its passage
as long dead stars
try to communicate
your future to you.

>>23957654
---- Solaria ----
9601
Impromptu

Nothing went wrong today
Notwithstanding an hour late schedule mistake

And so I took the usual joy
In unusually fine weather, spectacular

From the perspective of a flying couch
Engineered to see

An Icarus drunk with luxury, flying close to ground
Behind wheels of velvet sound

While some inverse of snow drifts by
As late autumn glitter in vernal atmosphere does

Exactly as it seems to do.

>>23957654
nigga, nigger, nigga, nigger
He’s steppin up? get pulled on by the trigger
Back to black to back to the black
Run run run away, then I hit you with the bat

>>23979629
---- Solaria ----
9602
Seneca

On the subject of noise I disagree
So strenuously that I agree with Goethe

On epistolary campaign to shut down an outdoor bowling venue
Irritating to suites of mind subtle as

Jurisprudence or Voyager.

I'm new to writing, I want to critique but with no experience or having ever been critiqued I have no clue what to look for or speak about. Can I get any advice? Where to go to further?

1:
When did you all become so different from me?
Gained your autonomy?
Each day, you grow more unique, less predictable,
and I stay the same—mother root.
Forming my shadow, you’ve slowly dispersed,
leaving we to just me.
It’s a realisation:
no matter how close I get to someone,
I’ll always be, ultimately, alone.

2:
While I was still deciding, dividing, biding,
and while every which way grew more agonising, my father drove me.
In a car meant for two, as men sometimes do, my father began crying.
Holding years over my head, he shed and shed tears, and said:
"You're breaking my heart and head. You promised you'd be with me.
You promised. You promised. Wish you me dead?"
He began to swerve, losing his head.
I pleaded and cried; I did not want to die.
I had to agree, to be with him, lest my ending be read.
Then the tears stopped, and the swerving ceased.

Palestine
4chan
20,000
How many true channers have suffered the same?
How many Slavs have suffered the same?

A tiny bug floats west--
like a dust mote drifting
through slats of golden light--
with a vainglorious ambition
much like ours.

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>>23980037
>I have no clue what to look for or speak about.
I like reading poetry about universal truths, or nature poetry; trauma dumping can be off-putting to some. To each their own though so don't let me discourage you If that's important to you. And I liked your first poem the most.

I don't know *how* new you are but try some metered verse first if you haven't. Iambic pentameter. And I can vouch for picrel.

In the land of /lit/, where the critics all dwell,
A thread was spun, and the poets did swell.
They bled their souls in verse and in line,
But oh, the stench—what a rancid design!

One wrote of moons, too trite, too pale,
Another of love, a sappy derail.
The metaphors limped, the rhymes were forced,
A banquet of cringe, poorly sourced.

A bard sang of life in a voice too grand,
Yet stumbled on clichés like loose beach sand.
Another, too clever, with words abstruse,
Confused the thread for a language noose.

Yet there they bickered, with venom and pride,
Each convinced their prose was the one bona fide.
"The death of art!" cried a cynical sage,
While posting their own unfinished page.

So here’s to the thread, a gallery grim,
Of lyrical wrecks and egos brimmed.
A lesson in this for poets unsteady:
Sometimes, the best verse is the one left unwritten already.

>>23980991
>He doesn't like moon poems
ngmi :( sorry for you bra

>>23980991
AI always has basically the same narrative structure.
>in a described setting
>something happens
>obvious conclusion about that thing

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>>23981079
oh yeah i just tried and it used a lot of the same lines
>In the ____ of /lit/,
>One wrote of ...
>Yet
>So here's to the ...

These things the poet must keep in mind. Besides these, he must also pay attention to the visual and other impressions which, apart from its essential effects, a poetic presentation inevitably makes upon the audience, for frequent errors are possible here also. These are adequately dealt with in my published works.

I'm the same Anon who posted this:

>>23958593
>>23958603

I wrote this a few days ago (I myself translated it from my original language):

– No, girls, no. Enjoy yourselves, my little hazelnut bonbons, enjoy yourselves. Love and be loved while you can, love and be loved, because we never know when fate will get tired of letting us play calmly between its paws, we never know when it will take its claws out, when it will finally sink its nails into us and grind us with bites... Ach! No one knows when that hour will come when all we will have left is to squeal. Enjoy the nights of Marzanna as they are now: no fog, well, no rain, well, no wind, very well, nights as calm as dolphin milk. Blessed be nights like these, so calm that we can hear the sighs of cows, the crickets playing cards, and the thoughts of moths. The winter nap here on the island lasts only a few weeks, my little mice, and when it wakes up again, it's already full of energy, and the energy it has it only uses to grumble, the old grump, only to grumble freezing gusts of wind and to spit its snot of snow, and that's when it doesn't even want to fight, turning the waters as if turning the dinner table. Ach!
Brenda stopped talking for a moment. Her lips pressed together, and she placed both hands on her belly, as if she wanted to protect something inside her womb. Then she continued to speak, in a solemn tone, as if making a confession before a priest:
– The veins of the Atlantic are never dead, but always pulsing. It was like that the night I lost Ulf. No one thought the winter winds would come out of nowhere. The men were at sea, fishing. That late afternoon, when I left the church with godmother Falk, I looked at the sky, and the sky was as purple as the face of a violent drunkard’s woman, and I said to godmother Falk: “Godmother, I’m going home to pray because a storm is coming today, and Ulf is at sea,” and she said: “Ach! But at this time, godmother? Really?”, and I said: “As certain as God’s love. Don’t I know how to read the mood of the skies just by looking at their faces?” That’s how I spoke, well, and I was right to speak like that, very well. In this case, the hen was black and the eggs were black. When I got home, I already saw clouds on the horizon, those thick, gray clouds that the skies crack open like eggs to pour the hellish yolk over us. The windstorm had already started by the time I got home. It started lightly, like the cry of a child when their teeth are coming in, but it thickened, and thickened, and thickened, and by ten at night, the skies were already a sow screaming, with her throat pipes cut off. Oh, my little hearts, my girls, what a horrible night, what a horrible night! The world was a storm of screams; all the witches had come out of the closet and were flying on the clouds, knocking on doors, scratching windows. It was like there was an asylum on the moon and the lunatics had broken the fence and escaped.

1/2

>>23981463

Barns were quartered, the firewood fled in flocks, the rivers growled and foamed like bears. The devil played the accordion and made the whirlwinds dance, turned the air into black puree, a puree of rotten potatoes. It seemed like the day for the skies to fall and break had come. And here I was, in this little corner here, kneeling in front of the cross, in front of the statues of the saints. I begged God to protect him, my Ulf. I pleaded with the Virgin to extend her mantle over him. I spent the whole night praying, but it was as if my sighs were stolen to fatten the winds that threw themselves against our husbands' boats... Ach! What a horrible night, what a horrible night! The next morning was strange... it felt like something impossible, as if the world were waking up from a hangover after the final judgment, yes, as if the day of judgment had just been a drunk night. It was as if the world had given up on dying amidst the pangs and pulls of agony; it was like they had pulled a chewed-up world out of the apocalypse’s mouth just before it was swallowed. When the sun decided it wanted to rise again and I saw the light in the window, I said to myself: “I know the boats were thrown against the stars last night, but I need to have hope. Not even in hell has hope been forbidden. I will have hope.” Old Thomas Breiner chose some men and formed a search party. At dawn they went after Ulf and the others. Yes, that was at dawn. At noon, when some old women from the village entered my house like crows, all silent, all crossing themselves, and when I saw men and women coming along the road, all crossing themselves, I knew it was all lost and that they would bring Ulf on a board... and that’s how it was, that’s how it was. “It’s God’s will, sister,” they said. “Let’s cry together, sister. But it’s God’s will. God’s will has been fulfilled.” Yes, that’s what they call God’s will, and I know prayers don’t change what is written... I know God’s will must be respected, but we’re not obliged to like it, are we, my little canaries?"

2/2

>>23957654
Imagined gaze of someone else
(One less empty than myself)
Will fill these gaping sockets in
And make me whole again...
I'm nothing but a skin-deep face,
A mask that's masking empty space.

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Sneed

I'm like the king of 4chan, rich
but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch,
one who ignores /lit/'s recommendations,
and kills the day in boredom not reading;
nothing cheers him, movies, music, games, books,
his (You)s from /tv/ bait threads;
the 1 GB tranny folder
no longer gets him through a single night;
his bed of dry semen becomes a tomb;
even the jannies of the board, for whom
all work is free, cannot withstand
his 50th off-topic post;
the redditor who gets his gold cannot invent
washes to cleanse his shitposting;
even in Blood Meridian threads, McCarthy's legacy,
our anon's solace in senility,
he cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food
is golden-crusted chicken tendies, not literature.

>>23982289
This is me, wtf

The last day
Is the most damned day
Take this from me
Take this away