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Love this poem. Shoutout Jack Gilbert

>>25386014
>work at a summer camp for tweens
>they're demons
>walking to dining hall w/ a group of the devils, mention to one of them I had The Cremation of Sam McGee memorized
>he asks to hear
>start reciting
>"There are strange things done in the midnight sun..."
>the others overhear
>they leave their antics (playing Geometry Dash and watching TikToks at full volume, screaming about Diddy and Tung Tung Tung Sahur, sprinting at cars, etc.) to see what's happening
>they listen completely silent w/ rapt attention for all fourteen stanzas
>"...that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge I cremated Sam McGee"
>they instantly return to being awful when the poem's done
Gen Alpha yearns for lyric poetry, going to try The Ballad of Reading Jail on them next

>>25386215
Technically boring and really safe modern slop

>>25386447
I'm sorry you didn't like it :( Post a poem you enjoy

>>25386448
It's not a matter of liking it, the man has nothing interesting to say about Icarus. He wasn't even willing to try saying something with gravitas despite using a mythological subject. To talk about his failed marriage in the most limp-wristed terms?? Frigg him, he's not writing poetry.

>>25386455
NTA post a poem dude

>>25386455
Please post a poem or I'll get upset

>>25386466
>>25386468
You "love" a poem about a ruined marriage, that has NO pathos in it? This castrati can't process his emotions so he makes a abstract correlation to Icarus, the myth everyone learns in kindergarten, and does a shitty and lazy job at that.

Where's his love, his tears, anger, grief?? You need to stop posting shit written by the steers of men.

>>25386474
>poemelet can't post a better poem than a castrati
For shame

>>25386215
If you think about it BPDemonesses are the dragon chased by our contemporary Romantics

>>25386256
It's time for Ballad Metre to make its comeback

>>25386502
You'd have to be schizophrenic to read anything into the personality of that character, let alone that she's BPD. The boomer faggot is more interested in eating lunch.

>>25386014
I wish, I wish, I was a fish.
Then I could splash, and I could splish.

>>25386474
Please post a poem I'm getting upset
>>25386502
Not sure what this means but I respect its energy even though it feels vaguely malevolent

>>25386537
Be upset that you think it's ok to like poetry
>with no meter
>relies on enjambment texture (the lowest effort technique)
>too lazy to create metaphor
>uses "like" instead to force similes as if he had to write it in one draft
>mythological thrust is also lazy/appeals to LCD
>emotionally, aesthetically dead sentences like "Listened to her while we ate"
>'akshully, since I'm an old man with no passion, icarus probably wanted to fail or whatever idrc'

>>25386547
You're going to make me cry if you don't post a poem. I don't want to fight in the poetry thread. I want to read some poems. Can you post a poem you enjoy

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Need more KINO like this

Always these limp dick formalists ruining every poetry thread - and without ever, ever posting their own.

>>25386596
You're a stain on culture. You don't even know why you like what you like, but you'll defend it anyways.

>>25386606

And you represent this famed "culture", menstruating all over a 4chan thread, roleplaying as some kind of poetry guardian with all the bile and none of the poetry. Truly go get fucked.

The rock-pusher

What a great weekend we had.
Once broken in, the kids were lovely—
They always take a while to warm up to dad.
Lovely walk. Quaint bookshops, milky coffee…

And you, my darling, what’s wrong?
We have such great times together.
Just a few more years, not too long,
And we can move to the country, together forever,
With a butler and a pond and fish
And shooting stars to make our wish.
Remember?
Smile, darling, smile.
London money is worth my while;
Just a few more years, not too long.
My train’s here, darling, I have to go.
Tell the kids that daddy heard their song,
And it’s his new favourite.
Smile, darling, please. Smile.
I love you. Tell the kids. I’ll only be gone a while.

Just a few more years.
Busy train. I reserved a forward seat.
Another man has taken it. No—no tears.
I’ll sit in a backwards facing seat.
Goodbye, love. Forgot my book.
What else could go wrong?
Just a few more years. Not too long.

Black silk of crow feathers cloaks her pale brow.
Like rain-soaked ravens upon fallen snow.
Through the tangled thick brush of her fallen hair,
Gleams a single wild eye like a wolf in its lair.

A rare emerald spark in a valley of stone,
Fixing its gaze till you find you're alone.
But winter took root where her lone eye would gleam,
Where the lace kissed her cheek as all color was lost.

Her fingers are roots of a ghost-white birch tree.
Weathered by seasons the sun never knew.
They curl like the claws of a slumbering hawk.
Tightening softly lest petals should break.

The lilies surround her, tearing swan plumage.
A funeral shroud for a spring never born.
They skin her pale collarbones, velvet-and-blight,
Weaving a cage where the dead petals bite.

One blossom is raised to the curve of her lips.
Crushed in the trap of her sharp fingertips;
Blotting the breath from her half-hidden mouth,
Guarding the name that was never allowed.

A firefly watches like a stubborn child.
A still, closing snare where all warmth dies.
She whispers the only name she knows.
And closes her eyes as you fall asleep.
~HopelessBeyondHelp


Well a few days ago I had a dream about a woman and I started writing journals whenever I dream or think about her and it's my first time writing an Epistolary that's wht internet calls it.

It's a Literary Fiction (prose -poetry) not that avg webnovel format and it contains Botanical Body-Horror Romanticism.

To be specific about a genre it's Psychological horror ig it describes it better in a broader sense.

Talking about the theme it's Melancholy surrender.

The poem is a part of first Journal

>>25386634
Did you write this?

I just love the chilean little nigga

[...]
Las lágrimas que luego derramaba permanecían en la superficie
del platillo durante días, testimonio no de mi dolor, sino de
una suerte de poesía exaltada que cada vez más a menudo
apretaba mi pecho, mis sienes y caderas. Una terraza,
un país cálido y un amor de grandes ojos fieles
avanzando lentamente a través del sueño, mientras la nave
dejaba estelas de fuego en la ignorancia de mis hermanos
y en su inocencia. Y una bola de luz éramos el platillo y yo
en las retinas de los pobres campesinos, una imagen perecedera
que no diría jamás lo suficiente acerca de mi anhelo
ni del misterio que era el principio y el final
de aquel incomprensible artefacto. Así hasta la
conclusión de mis días, sometido al arbitrio de los vientos,
soñando a veces que el platillo se estrellaba en una serranía
de América y mi cadáver casi sin mácula surgía
para ofrecerse al ojo de viejos montañeses e historiadores:
Un huevo en un nido de hierros retorcidos. Soñando
que el platillo y yo habíamos concluido la danza peripatética,
nuestra pobre crítica de la Realidad, en una colisión indolora
y anónima en alguno de los desiertos del planeta. Muerte
que no me traía el descanso, pues tras corromperse mi carne
aún seguía soñando.

>>25386215
That isn’t a fucking poem that’s just a paragraph

>>25386856
Yes, I did