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

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

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

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

(it kinda rhymes in ny language)

Per
Oty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me know what you guys think about them.

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

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

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

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

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

And there, I stood all alone.

A haiku.

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

mash potatoes
apple sauce
buttery...biscuits

and i get lost


:DDDD

bump

>>24684785
Kill yourself.

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

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

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

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

>>24684868
>Mirtazapine
>18th C pastoral
Wat

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>>24684971
welcome to the postmodern era my brother

>>24684978
Oh sorry
*(H)wat

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck
My
Family

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>>24683228
battymon fi dead
kill all single moms
allahu akbar

>>24683228
Peroty?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Sleeper

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

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

And the cold lies bitter on the ground.

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

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

She saw your balls?

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

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