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I thought this was really good.
Quote by Something_Vague
Good job sweetie!

Shush you, you'll ruin your reputation of being the soulless critic and ego-smasher.
I'm gonna crit this later tonight, seems promising on my first quick read-through though.
Thanks everyone, the support means a lot as I've been trying to write a decent poem for about the past six months and it's been pretty frustrating. hopefully this spells the end of my writer's block and I'll be able to contribute more often.

I missed this place!
Grammar tightened up a bit.

In some Morning sickness he, slouching
over the toilet in frail and trembling surreal conception,
catches spittle and bile in his beard.

I could have carried it with a certain grace, I'm sure--
like the way ivories are meant for a slender, delicate touch.
Felt deep within my womb that there was a special space
carved out, through some act of God,
just for her, for us.

Even as a small child I knew it was there; inside me, waiting.
Stuffing pillows underneath my nightgown,
standing in front of my bedroom mirror
imagining the shape of a woman's body.

All I can do is watch the ultrasound,
dreaming that I felt some twist or twinge
and not just sympathetic pains.

His belly bulges from some unseen thing,
something that should have been mine.
Of what name, of what being,
of what part of me does it hold,
if any?
I'd really like to see someone try and derive meaning from this.
thanks Dylan and jimi, and yes, it's Lisa.
Quote by crazysam23_Atax
I was being partly sarcastic. But eschewing all rules of the English writing system, like grammar and punctuation, is not expressive. It's just like some teenage kid acting out because he'd "rather do his own thing". There are rules. Ignoring them completely for the sake of experimentation is fine, but one must have a greater purpose than odd literary technique simply for the sake of odd literary technique.

Wait a second here-- I'm going to actually read this poem.

Let's take a moment to read this poem aloud.

listen to the wealth of consonance and dissonance within the word play. it's quite beautiful at times, when you read it aloud, isn't it? just the way those words so seamlessly blend at times, only to be interrupted by a beat of harsh consonants.

now look at the poem.

notice how simply through the spelling of words do those words visually warp and thus, transform their meaning. what we're left with is a bit of distance as readers, we can't clearly see or imagine any scene or place, but he's given us enough hints such as the insertion of seemingly incongruous imagery, such as "white glasses", it stands out, but we're unsure why. but when connected to words such as "queen" and "trust lips" and even "gray tits", a female starts to take shape within this strange, seemingly incomprehensible poem.

then there's clearly the repetition, words like "drone" and "pressure", lending the poem a darker, somewhat claustrophobic sense as these words twist and bend on the screen with onomatopoeia that seems to constantly resemble a moan.

and then the end,
those last few lines:

Foulish. gather prawn lost years burnt rum roman canter.
Roaming skulk, bothering sleep, death

how u’ve groan.

with that last "groan", ( reference back to the howling onomatopoeia), the images of unsettled sleep and death, and this poem appears to be an metaphor of some terrible, possibly romantically related struggle through to a defeating, and yet almost lucid end as this where the poem more closely resembles traditional poetry form.

but even without those particular attachments and metaphors, through the words alone, if given a careful reading, do lend a sense of emotion: desperate, howling, confused emotion.
It's free association. You're not supposed to care about what it means. I'm guessing it's simply an experiment in form.
So I just landed a job as a bartender somehow, even though I've no experience whatsoever. I can't wait for belligerent shenanigans to ensue.

hopefully it will inspire some writing, as I very much miss sharing poems here. I've also been practicing singing, so maybe I'll have the courage to pen some actual lyrics.

oh also, I've got some new paintings if anyone is interested, here
congrats Fred! it's about time!
Quote by Something_Vague
Lisa convinced me to add a small animal sidekick to my novel to make my protagonist more likable. Strangest edit, thus far.

it works for Disney, it worked for Murakami, it'll work for you!

my next goal is to make you add a fairy princess.

haha jimi, you're not that far off. they're mice.
Hey guys, so I know a lot of you have Tumblr accounts for your poetry and what not.

I recently re-read their content policy and, for those of you that post writing, poetry and lyrics on Tumblr, anytime you publish on the site you grant them a royalty-free license to distribute your work. You still have the ownership, but you're effectively granting them a license as well.

I just thought that for those of you who are looking to publish your work, this is something to be aware of in case you weren't. A lot of time publishers want exclusive first-publication rights during which you agree that you won't publish your work anywhere else. Literary journals are especially known for this. Of course, the likelihood of Tumblr doing anything with your work is fairly low, but you never know!

so yeah, there's my copyright PSA of the day.
Quote by ali.guitarkid7
WotW material I'd say.

I agree.

as to what Randy said, yes it's true you can sometimes fairly obtuse in your wording, but I think even just the diction lends itself quite well to emotion and mood and even if you can't precisely place a firm grasp on every metaphor, you still get a general sense of what's going on and it can be quite powerful in how *ahem* vague it is. though with this particular piece, knowing that Joyce Collins is your grandmother certainly helps.
Quote by stellar_legs
I thought I gave it a decent go, and now that I know the title the whole thing registers better.

Shucks, guess I'm just plain simple.

thanks Randy, you actually were very helpful, and actually brought up a legitimate point in that I think changing the title might actually clarify the content of this poem a bit more. I might have been too elusive with the meaning, so hopefully this helps.
I think the introduction was the strongest part of the piece, so visceral and violent I could really picture this gruesome image.

"The fourth bird burst forth" is a bit of a tongue-twister, it's an awkward combination of sounds that I would recommend changing.

I think the onomatopeia, tip-terp is a bit too humorous for the rather dark tone of this piece. also, I don't think it's even neccessary. we know they're birds, you don't need to show them actually chirping.

wasn't a big fan of the exclamation point at the end of the line, "and her mouth ripped open!" but that might just be personal preference, though I think it might have the same effect as the afore-mentioned onomatopeia above.

I almost wanted you to end it on the second to last stanza, it really brought back the violence of the beginning in a nice circle.

all in all, dramatic, dark and just the right touch of the macabre. I appreciate your subject matter.
I've changed the title to Lust in order to end this discussion on how I don't know French. I liked the euphemism, but my misspelling has obviously prevented anyone from being able to actually read this piece at all.

so yes, PLEASE, don't correct my French anymore. If I could change the main title I would, but it's stuck the way it is for the moment.

does anyone have any other helpful criticism?
Quote by stellar_legs
Short and sweet but a little convoluted. Short pieces work in a sense that they condense a world of knowledge into a paragraph or two, almost like setting up a vague joke and ending with a strongly resonant punch line. The set up works, but I don't feel like the piece closes. To me it ends while leaving a desired resolution. A bit vague, but lyrical enough to sustain a nice flow that hums. But I don't feel there's an ending.

I think if you'd looked up the meaning of the title, you'd get the punch at the end. and also the set-up.
Quote by GoodVibrations
My French teacher begs to differ.

thanks for the critique.
Wikipedia begs to differ.
change "boss" to "hoss" and you get an A+

but in all honesty, I mostly agree with Zack, a bit forgettable.
"heavily adorned ears" seems a bit over the top in terms of describing that she simply wore earrings. sometimes simplicity is the most appropriate. the second stanza/verse, I think might benefit from toning it down a bit. so blatantly describing suicides or death to describe your lost love, you don't have to go to such extremes to describe the depth of your feeling. yes, love and death are so often intrinsically tied throughout literature, but this reads as simply over-dramatizing. it's your metaphors that kill it for me. I will say I do appreciate the conflict between the bitterness of a break-up, and the fond memories that still exist. That being said, I think in general, my issue was that the tone of this piece came off a little bit too unprovoked. Without a better sense of what exactly made this girl so terrible, it just seems bitter. In short, I can't really empathize.

juuuust kidding, I'm already intrigued by the title and the first stanza (what a great opening!), but I will have to save this crit for when I'm more awake.

I WILL get back to it though.

shifting liquidly between the calcium reefs,
I swam, through floral patterns of surrounding fabric;
claustrophobia bent on dissuading me from the realism,
and gravity of the attempt to place myself
upon some shore.

some pink warmness resides here still,
pearls left behind the tide.
apparently I leave for a week and our apartment just turns into festering miserableness and you set your laundry on fire. I hope our cats are still alive and you haven't turned their rotting skulls into totems to scare off the annoying lesbian neighbors.

...despite my smart-ass remarks, you've definitely put me in a specific place with this piece. uncomfortable is a good way to put it, as Saadia said above. I almost feel like it's a precursor to something really unsettling; it puts me on edge.
Quote by Bag'ed
Thats weird, I was thinking about doing the same thing with The Brothers Karamazov just today, though I think I'm going to read Despair by Nabokov first.

For some reason I'm hooked on Russian writers which seems silly considering the wealth of literature in Europe..

I've had Lolita sitting on my shelf for about a year and haven't gotten around to it yet. I have to stick with Dosty though, I've read a book or story by him every winter for the past 3 years.

Quote by culex-knight
Been missing out with no TBK.

I've heard it's his masterpiece, looking forward to it. So far, I've liked The Idiot the best just because Myshkin is one of my favorite fictional characters to date. plus, that ending! so perfect.
Quote by #1 synth
goal for last undergrad winter break: get back into yoga practice so I can teach again next semester

it's my last undergrad break as well. I'm going to stretch 5 giant canvases, paint like mad and read some Russian literature because it's my wintertime tradition. Finally going to tackle The Brothers Karamazov.
This song holds possibly some of my favorite lyrics ever written:

I was born with a teacup on my head,
Copper tin and lead, ash and dust.
Sky color: Indiana Red,
Like Kansas, Oklahoma, plus a thousand years of rust.

Examine it carefully before it's set ablaze,
Take it all in before it's gone, gone, gone.
Let's notice everything, I mean every grain of salt.
Let's be thorough to a fault and next time
we'll build it twice as strong.

And all of this will disappear as quickly as it came,
The fire and the rain oxidize and rearrange
Focus on the pain,
Focus on the way to get out.

Virginia, 1902.
There was nothing we could do, cracked bell fell off a train,
Slow walking down Cedar Avenue,
I came to find you, I came to feel urbane.

No more speed, no more direction,
No more push and pull, and no more lessons,
Save it for the afterlife, don't want to hear your confessions,
It's the hammer walking, then it's the hammer down.

And all of this will disappear as quickly as it came,
The fire and the rain oxidize and rearrange
Focus on the pain,
Focus on the way to get out.

The Books are so perfect for wintertime.
I applaud you for being able to create a piece of writing out of what most would assume to be a job that kills creativity. The capability of deriving something meaningful from every experience is what makes an artist.

you never fail to impress me Matt.
this is a perfect example of a well-written rhymes, it didn't feel forced or trite, and in fact I didn't immediately notice that there was a regular rhyme scheme at all until the end of the poem. nicely done.
Quote by Cobrevolution

dangling on still tagged clothing on hangers

I really love how this line kind of turned in on itself with "dangling on" and then ending it with "on hangers".

if anything, I think you could expand on this with a few more well-placed details to really describe that state of heightened awareness that comes with paranoia.
Quote by #1 synth

iron zinc neutron smear
osmosis reggae pound basslines sweet

I'm personally not a fan of these two lines, I think they're a bit too image-heavy and I don't really get much out of them other than the punch of the sounds themselves. Which, in itself, is fairly powerful, but it just seems to be a bit out of touch with the rest of the piece. like you might have just thrown it in there for the need for something harsh and cathartic, but couldn't settle on a specific action or image.

I don't know if this was intentional, but the use of "sing sing" and prison within two different lines was great, the connection wasn't obvious but it's there. all in all, I definitely felt your emotion and anger strongly, it really came through in a powerful way.
winter sets such a perfect mood for this particular melancholy you've got going on in this piece. I'm fairly certain this is about infidelity, and if so, the choice to depict is so gracefully speaks volumes about the relationship itself. well-written, I don't have any real criticism.
Aw, thanks guys. This I certainly an encouragement to write poetry again. It's been like a four month hiatus as I've been spending most of my time working on paintings for my thesis show coming up next March. Maybe I'll share of few of them sometime, I've always considered writing poems to accompany them, but I've always felt I'm not polished enough as a poet and I'd hate for one to detract from the other. Also, conceptually, having poems alongside implies that they are illustrations rather than fine art...but I'm rambling.

Anyway, thanks, this really was completely unexpected.
well-played, sir.
my first reactions: a bit unemotional, like you were viewing events unfold from a distance. maybe it's just the cynicism that I'm sensing and misconstruing.

will edit a longer crit in when I'm more awake.
Quote by stellar_legs
I've been focusing my writing on other mediums lately. I wrote a 100+ page script a month ago - an extremely raunchy comedy. Comedy is extremely difficult to write, BUT a group of filmmakers at Wright State's film department here in Ohio decided they want to film it. So in a month we will be filming this thing with the works: expensive cameras, cranes, lights, booms, etc. I'm pretty excited to see how it turns out, considering me and my friends make up the cast.

I'm glad you actually sat down and finished something this time.

and that's not sarcasm Randy, I really am glad for you.
^thanks, I agree and used your suggestions. admittedly, this is my least polished work to date, I drunkenly typed it out in a fit at like 3 AM, partially because it's been too long since I wrote a piece and also because writing seemed to be the only thing that made sense at the time.

I'm very open to critiques still, because I feel like there's still some issues but it's such a personal piece that I'm having a hard time looking at it objectively.
on the drive here:
"Dayton is where people go to die." jokingly,
you looked at me out of the corner of your eye.
my parents- almost 50- show no signs of leaving
this comfortable hollow they've carved for themselves.
Living at this odd juxtaposition
between commercial suburbia
and failing Midwest farmland
(complete with gutted barns and sharpening overgrowth),
it feels like the Bermuda triangle of the Miami Valley.

I can feel this childish loneliness
seeping back as I lie in my old bed,
like a sense memory of a ghost limb.
Tracing my fingers around the hole in the wallpaper
that I'd kicked stubbornly, out of sheer frustration,
I sink my fist inside,
for some honest truth inside these walls.
Finding nothing.
The silence is deafening compared to the city,
and I find myself falling asleep, thinking
'my dead cat is buried on a high hill in those woods,
in an unmarked grave.'

Lonesome, loathsome, loveliness
like a tile mosaic on a bathroom floor
where I vomited blood
because my last painting or poem
wasn't good enough,
and the woods next door to my parent's house,
still as vast and unfathomable as always.