What Do You Think Of My Poetry?

[Evil Penguin]

Lycanthrope returns! I have not seen you in a while...

[Renegade_Turner]

the wind of sitting there
and not
saying a word
and not
living a dream
and it hurts.

I wouldn't call that much of an improvement. Metaphor and enjambment are not sufficient for beautiful poetry.

As for Andy, poets avoid common word combinations like "bad dream" or "lessons learned" and don't throw around loaded metaphors like souls and death and sex without a really good reason. Also, your rhyme scheme is forced; if you rhyme, it shouldn't be at the cost of choosing words well.

But most importantly, I think, your thema are not interesting. You're writing...
1) About a girl whose boyfriend died: that she is sad
2) About a persona who got some bad news: that he is distracted and stressed out
3) Some bizzare political statement about black people not having learned their lesson, which I can't quite work out
4) About a broken-hearted guy: that he wants to be far away...
My point is, you don't seem to have much to say about your subjects that is interesting at all, and so your poems end up sounding like pointless rhyming exercises.

That's actually very helpful. I couldn't have seen some of those things myself. It seems I have a long way to go before becoming a good poet. Hopefully as I mature I will become more adept.

[Renegade_Turner]

Hey, could people take another look at my poetry? It's been a while, and I've added a few poems, which I think are nice, or an improvement. Opinions on your interpretation of the poems would be nice.

[Zantalos]

Well, poetry isn't my thing, I like poetry with pictures and rhyme rythim. Particularily Dr. Suess, I don't really know why...
But what about this?

I hate Catholics. The priests of the church fucking "bless" this circular bread, then let the Catholic public eat it at church, telling them that it's "The Body Of Christ". WHY ARE YOU EATING YOUR LEADER!? THAT'S FUCKING MEAN. If Jesus knew what you were doing, he'd be spinning in his grave. You're not ACTUALLY eating Jesus's body, you know. It's just bread, morons. And you drink wine that is "blessed" aswell, and then you say that it's his blood? WHY ARE YOU DRINKING HIS BLOOD? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU, A VAMPIRE!? God, I hate Catholics. They're fucking bigots. If anyone thinks differently, they're wrong. And what we are saying is, practically : "Yessir, alright Sir, can I have it up the butt, Sir?" Yes, that's right, they're fucking us in the ass, and we're doing nothing about it. Well, I say it's time for a change. We're going to get them fucking fascist bastards. It's time for some stoning. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." You think I'm going to let this guy who is without sin throw a stone at me? HELL NO, HE'S GETTING STONED IN THE FUCKING FACE. Don't be stupid. And if someone tries to defend themselves, I'll only beat them harder. So, if you're up for some stoning, let's all go to America and stone the Americans. Oh, whoops. I meant Catholics, didn't I? Silly me.

It's wrong, I'm not even catholic and I know it's wrong. What the heck is wrong with you, you are insane!
The comments are more entertaining then the poetry, we should talk about those instead.

[Albab]

xD That's fucking hilarious. Obviously joking (hopefully) xD.

[Renegade_Turner]

I was joking. Those are meaningless rants. I'm never actually being serious on that journal for anything other than the poetry. Please do not go off-topic. I want people to talk about the poetry.

And yes, I know my rants are hilarious, no need to say it.

[Renegade_Turner]

Why not give it more dimensions? Something like

Her, the seat, not him. Her tongue is flickering.
Slowly, the past becomes hungry.
It eats itself, and his face;
She falls into a daydream of words
whispered
but the wind blows them away
the wind of sitting there
and not
saying a word
and not
living a dream
and it hurts.

But that's just me. Even such poetry is 'oldschool', by the way.

This isn't true. That poetry is a lot more modernist. The majority of the older poets stuck to strict metres when writing poetry. What you suggested had no recognisable metre whatsoever, which is more like modern day poetry because it avoids any poetic schemes like iambic pentametre and stuff.

If you look at older-styled poetry like Yeats or Shakespeare, they stuck to strict metres in their poems.

Sorry to bump an old thread, but I was reading over this and saw that.

[Renegade_Turner]

This thread is so old that I'm not ever using blocky purple text in it, but I figured it's better to post this somewhere it's relevant rather than starting a new thread.

Here's a poem I found on an old poetry site that I thought I never posted and was lost on some old file on another computer. Only saw it because I got some old random message notifying me of it...

What I think I hoped when writing it was to touch on the vague indefinite recollection of what happens when we dream and the effect it can have on us. Personally I'm rarely, if ever, affected by dreams too much but one night I had a dream that was so vivid and touched on so many of my fears that it stood out. Well, my fears at the time, some relevant still, some not as relevant. Well, here it is:

Dreamsight

I am driving, cold and slippery,
Dark. The windshield pours,
Brake, the wheels slide on,
Gravel breaking any friction,
Ploughing through a sign,
A sign I never took heed of.
I am dancing, drunk and careless,
Dark. My friends laugh,
Stop, to get a drink, one that...
I don't really need. I find that...
My money's gone. All gone.
Desperate, I ask the barman
If he has seen it at all. If anyone,
Perhaps, has handed it in.
He stares at me with pity.
Lost, I am in a building, lost,
Confused and aimless, I try
To find someone to tell me
When my exam is to begin
I have missed it, I have missed
My last exam. My last hope.
The windshield pours down.
I am at home. How did I get
Here? What is this for?
A man I don't much know
Tells me the TV is broken.
He is fixing it outside in
The rain. The windshield
On the car, pouring down.
And I sit inside, on my bed,
Dreaming, strange dreams,
There is an explosion, and...
I am in the hall. The front porch
Is ablaze. I wander there
To find what has happened,
"We need to call an ambulance"
Said the girl I don't know,
The strange man, half his face,
Has burned off. Half his face,
Is uncharred. A horrid mix,
Of black and red, Half dream,
Half reality. I wonder what
To do. The dream haunts me.

Note that what I was doing with this was writing off a long rambling piece to make the bones of the content, and then after I'd finished that, putting it in slightly more coherent order and adding bits and snipping bits off here and there. It was very quick and very rough, but for some reason I was very happy with what came out at the end.

Be as cruel as you like, I don't rest my life and soul on my skill, or lack thereof, in poetry, it's just something I've always had a love of writing when the mood takes me.