Poetry Discussion Queue

Poetry Discussion Queue


If you want to have one of your poems up for critique, as is explained in the Welcome thread, you must first offer non-trivial, substantial critique to two other poems.

Once you have made those two critiques, you can sign up your poem for critique by replying to this thread. Please include a link to your poem, if it is posted at Literotica, or the poem itself if it is not. You can also include, if you wish, some introductory words you may have about the poem, as well as point out specific aspects of the poem that you want to see addressed.

The order in which the poems will be posted by the moderators will be, in general, first come, first serve. The exception will be that those with a recently critiqued poem lose priority to those offering a poem for the first time.

Obviously, no one has made the two critiques necessary to be eligible to have a poem discussed, since there aren't any poems to discuss yet!

To get things rolling, the first poem to go up for critique will be by wildsweetone - because she was the one who came up with the idea behind this sub-forum.

And anyone who leaves a substantial critique on this first thread will immediately be eligible to have one of his or her poems added to the queue. No need to wait for a second poem to comment on.

I would enjoy a review of the very first non-erotic poem I posted on Lit.

http://english.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=125358

My questions are:


1) How do you interpret the poem? Is the meaning clear?

2)I am most concerned with imagery, other than the near rhymes, but want to find out your opinions on how the semiotics stand up, and how you interpret them. However all comments and perspectives are welcome.

Thank you all.

To however feebly keep the fire of this subforum burning, let me toss this little thing on the rapidly cooling coals:

I do have some fairly specific questions about this, but rather than muddy the results with the Rosenthal Effect, let me stick to these general questions:

1. What does the poem say or mean to you, if anything? (There is not a "right" response to this. I know what I think it means, but I want to know what you think it means, if anything. Checking on whether I am communicating well or not.)
2. Is it too short? Too long? (And, for either response, why?)
3. What, if anything, did you like about the language?
4. What, if anything, did you dislike about the language?
5. This poem originally had a dedication (for ...) that was meant to be ironic. I removed it before placing the poem here. Are dedications pretentious?
6. Are you American? (That isn't a gratuitous question. I actually have a reason for asking it. Of course, feel free not to answer it.)
7. Am I fated to make millions as a poet, or should I work harder at my day job?

Anything else you'd like to say (e.g., "you've got a really dopey avatar") is, of course, welcome as well.

Thank you all in advance.

tz

Alright, here's a little thing I've been working on. Do with it as you please.



Argonauts

Thursday, yet a dirge to match
my dead excuses. To drag
through a decaying routine,
my eyes, seeking out behind
early morning shaded glasses
some kind of geist
as commuting peers passes.

And there, you.

Always someone, slightly hyper real
in the hoard of grey.
You, a new body every day,
but your impact close enough to feel.

To glow against a backdrop surface
of crowd, your face somehow
in relief to render presence.

Heading for a paradigm shift,
a quantum leap, and unafraid,
I hope, I do believe.

Maybe you tread a path
run smooth by soles
or maybe you are indeed
an argonaut, who knows?

But I leave you, brushing closely by,
as a pioneer in my eyes. So you fuel
my dream to become, to travel too,
when the time one day is right.



I'm not going to give you any specfic questions that I want answered. Feel free to attack this from any angle you feel like. Intepretations of the imagery. Connotations of references. Prosodics and rhythm. Telling me it sucks ass. It's entirely up to you.

My poetry tends at times to be highly confusing and only really understandable to those that know me really well.....

I recently submitted and had posted:

Seasons of Emotions

1. What do you think the poem is about?
2. What do you think was the intent of the poem?
3. Does it leave you wanting more?
4. How could it have in your opinion been a stronger piece?
5. Is there anything that detracts from the poem?
6. Any extra thoughts and opinions?

Thank you in advance....

Always, E

Panties in the Sink

If you must know
I have these little wirey hairs on my tits.
Actually they are not little.
They are long.

Yes I pluck them
with angled tweezers,
finger-tips,
the pain wakes me right up
nipples perk and pink and wanting
their own pinch.

Shaving nipples does not seem right
although that guy with the crooked cock shaved his
right there in front of me the first time we fucked.
Hell of a thing to wake up to
looking down from a strange loft
dizzy with vertigo vision
to see a naked man
shaving his chest.

He starts to explain.
I do not care.
I cannot care.

Finally on day three of my stay
in his Philadelphia loft,
his roommate, Chuck and I were awake at the same time.
He had snored through everything
except the night had his own bitch on the couch.
She came so loud, and then it was silent
until he said
wait, baby, come on, don't.

But it was too late,
she was sobbing
I know, I know
I can't help it!
I can't help it!
I can't help it.

And I just wanted her to stop
life on rewind and repeat
all too familiar.

Day three there were no dry towels
so I used the clean sheet off Chuck’s bunk
and was smoking on the Papasan chair
while my lover washed my panties in the sink.

Chuck sees me and says
Just don't fucking drink my Kool-aide.

Sharkle-berry fin.
I say and give him the finger.

Where's my lighter?
He smiles and reaches under my ass to feel for it.
After letting him search a minute or two
I pick up the Zippo off the milk-crate coffee table
and hold the flame under his chin.

He grabs hard
and I flex my shower-wet ass around his fingers
giving him a taste of what his roommate
was getting for washing my panties
in his sink.

I always knew it would not last,
and sure enough, day six
the little bump appeared.
There was no hiding
the ingrown hair on my left breast.
It was time to move on
before he noticed.
~


A pre-thank you to anyone who reads, comments, etc. I need a title for this.

~anna

I read this to the end and didn't think about a critique because nothing jarred but even you aren't that good anna so I'm going to have to go away and think about it.

I loved the straight talk and the details, I just didn't want it to end, I felt I was a fly on the wall in a docu-soap.

Damn, I'm turning into a groupie.

bogusbrig said:

I read this to the end and didn't think about a critique because nothing jarred but even you aren't that good anna so I'm going to have to go away and think about it.

I loved the straight talk and the details, I just didn't want it to end, I felt I was a fly on the wall in a docu-soap.

Damn, I'm turning into a groupie.

Click to expand...

Wait for the thread to be posted, though. This is just the queue.

Near Nigh Now

I can't find the one I wanted to make Lauren space for me. It is a beauty titled "CRACKERJACK HEART" and is meant to be read in at least four different directions. Of course the formating is crucial. It must have disappeared during a computer death. I have it on paper, so I guess I will have to type it up again sometime.

In the meantime here is shorty that does not require special formating.
What's your take and do you see any influences?
All comments welcome.

Near Nigh Now

Near nigh
to now
and not by my view
one equal share
of the truth shall they seek
or will relive
that of what is quiet

Time past
long past
life noise fades
behind all memories
sown and reaped by men
they forget
what life repeats
In times
Of now yet

I'm happy to put my head in the guillotine once I've qualified by making enough critiques.

Do I just post a poem on this thread now or wait?

bogusbrig said:

I'm happy to put my head in the guillotine once I've qualified by making enough critiques.

Do I just post a poem on this thread now or wait?

Click to expand...

Whichever way you want. You can post it now to save your spot. If things move along quickly, as they seem to be doing now, I think Rybka's poem can go up on Monday or Tuesday, and yours perhaps a week from now.

The Misery Desire

Into the black yawning gob of the tunnel
The dark mouthed kiss of the deep swallow
It is at this point he was usually shocked by the sunrise
Catching him bolting along on the dawn stallion
Dracula retreating to his tomb

‘For him she is sex - absolute sex, no less.’

He read De Beauvoir as a form of redemption
All the time thinking of his cock and a woman’s warm insides
Feminism he could understand if he closed his ears
Their minds functioned with different cogs and springs
He preferred to think of her locked into coition
And jigging a comic dance
The absurd locomotion of pelvises thrashing together
So he returned to Schoppenhauer

‘Hence, it will be found that the fundamental fault
of the female character is that it has no sense of justice.’


There were one hundred men queuing outside her window
The drapes slightly parted allowing in a little light
As she busied herself with social obligations
Fussing her cats and connecting with friends
And moving coyly with affected decorum
With just enough whore walk to show them she might







Who is on whose leash and who takes whom for a walk?


His addled brain fumbled like clumsy hands
To perceive what only light to the eye can satisfy
And roughly get to grips with the situation
But like Actionman his will outgunned the ways
And not even a conjuror's confusion of mirrors
Could raise his state in that condition
Not even her wandering naked about his brain

Under the Black Flag

(for those not overly impressed by so-called creative writing, Pulitzers, etc.)

Why speak of the politics of poetics?
-To sing as small birds in spring, with stutter
steps of wrens working lawns before taking wing.
Warbling words to the beat of a baby's heart-
dry gurgles. While you bleed out in tweed

on sheets of skin sloughed off laid
out for the cuntish hoards. Is this what
you want -to join the chorus of grunting
bores - of this- you would be king?
Dwarf dung!*


-You are-
beyond those things.

Just paper, as paper it shall be shred.

Come,
.......sing as swung steel does becoming dulled;
.......stand down the wreckage of wood and lead.

Come,
.......the steppes are large and empty. We shall be
.......as reckless missles hurdling* in unguided night.

Alas, wild grasses shall bow their heads before us,
the scourge of dogs, even though we are one.

Come,
.......under the black flag with me.

Come,
.......we shall leave the streets in grease.

Тэмүүжин

*mispronounced Hur dle ling
* Hi Ho

I just barely qualify, if I qualify at all.

With The Devil

WSO made me do it. So I gave her 3 to choose from. Then I didn't choose any she did. I chose this one instead. No clue why. Have at it, y'all. I'm ready...

Liars Lament

If by chance we meet again
.............please walk away
.............don't try to say
it's different now than when

you made a choice you had to make
.............please walk away
.............don't try to say
that moonlight gleaming on the lake

Let you look into my eyes
and tell me all those lies;
could cause the pain I felt
could cause the skies to bleed

could change forever what we were
.............please walk away
.............don't try to say
You'd rather me than her

I'm settled now and so
.............please walk away
.............don't try to say
I really need to go now

let me look into your eyes
and tell you that the lies
I whispered soft to you
caused the skies to bleed

I changed forever what we were
.............please walk away
.............don't try to say
I sent you running back to her
.............don't walk away
.............please try to stay
and now thats how it always has to be.

This is part of my Songs For My Mandolin series. Its mountain music. Bluegrass. Sung by a male/female duo. Its a waltz. I put this one here because I can't really decide if I like it or not. I'm sticking my neck out cuz who likes bluegrass these days? Besides me?

Boo's discussion thread has been removed at her request.
So, who's next?

The Poets said:

Boo's discussion thread has been removed at her request.
So, who's next?

Click to expand...

Can I be next on the couch?

Tristesse said:

Can I be next on the couch?

Click to expand...

Please do.
I think Ms. Lauren is around here somewhere with a couch.

I am. Please let's have a new poem!

: Deep breath: warning This will be a total change from the intellectual poems offered of late.

Body Of Writing

Write me a poem
on your skin. He said.
So that reading it
will be an act of love.


and now my arms are covered
with yearning words
and longing my palms
have psalms as post scripts
after-thoughts that occurred to me
too late my shoulders bear the print
of care and burdens borne willingly
my neck is sinuous with words
urging you to continue tracing
the script with your light
touch my ears where minute words
tell wanton tales too small to read
but whispered as you gasp
in my arms along my spine
is where your name is cried out loud
and often for I won’t forget
but in ecstasy you might
each buttock is studied smooth
comfy conundrums
pillow-puzzles with no answers
supplied my inner thighs are staves
where notes of love songs are
to be sung as duets
a cappella with instructions
on how to play the melody
penned on my pubis
drawing words of wonder
from my lips where
waits the final movement
a largo with a solid
deep bass beat.

Fixation


Straight hooks barbed
Claw the world crooked

Sarcastically she fashions
A debutante’s dress
From lace delicate dreams
Stabbing cloth with pins
Dulled by use
Subdued by repetition

But needles don’t cry
When soft flesh yields
To vice
Fix me
Fix me up nice
So I can smile today.

Sixteen looks like sixty
Hagged out
Dragged out
Dumpster dwelling
Thriving on the garbage
Both kinds

Seen me sin lately?
Cost ya just a buck
And a fix
Drown my smiles with tears

Lavender lace tourniquet
Soiled by stains
Best not spoken of
In mixed company

The beast growls
And howls out profanity
In a litany consumed with faith

Growling silence pools out
Liquid cross the parking lot
With spittle flying soundless
From his lips
That arch and rage around
Yellowed canines

Soapbox pure thoughts
Spew upon the somnolent crowd
That walk from day-to-day

Fists shake and shatter silence
Towards the heavens
That the beast no longer believes in
Mere mouthing phrases
Felt so passionately he delivers

Till his silence draws attention
For the time it takes
One to turn one’s head
And return
To walk from place-to-place

Morning On the Queue


After the slaughters and tribunals,
a thousand writs and witherings,
they’re up before the copper launch

of dawn to watch the change of guard.
They needed no bells. They woke
to the yawns of a bloodthirsty sun

about to peek above the parapet
to light the walk in no man’s land.
They know today another snap of light

will come. Not the synchronized sizzle
of bulbs that marked the spark
of the old fast burn, but above

a gurney, a strapped man.
Their heads drop down
to legal texts that hold somewhere,

somewhere, the words to stop
the brilliant break of their own day.
They do still dream. Not of women

or wealth, but moving away from light,
like a wild scramble of crabs
in the hold, needing the cold sea,

the comfort of known darkness,
their world suddenly
far too bright and turning.

Would anyone like to submit a poem for discussion? Since this forum is a bit slow, how about I make a great offer! You don't need to have any comments in this forum to post a poem in the queue. But this offers runs out the end of March. So, come on.

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