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September 2010
 
 
 
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cuponoodlepower:
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poetry mongers
Tue, Jun. 3rd, 2008 07:31 am

This is my first poem I've posted here for crit. I am very frustrated with this poem at the moment. I keep hearing the same things about it, and if I change those things it changes what I am trying to say to the reader. So I need to know if I should just give up on the idea.

Mary Shrine

Clear plastic covering,
draped against rain.
Tiny twinkle lights,
primary hued wound
around chicken wire.
Creating the small box enclosure.

Flowers, actual and paper made
neon in hot pink and green,
Litter, camouflage red clay dirt.

She stands center,
painted pastel peach skin,
fading carnation pink cheeks.
Robins egg blue robe covers
What was never meant to be
molded.
Eyes cast down at scalped prayer
folded hands.

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maenads_dance:
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poetry mongers
Thu, Apr. 17th, 2008 12:51 am
This is for a class, but I can't write shitty poetry for class, even if all the teacher is expecting is for us to churn out a pastiche of a Shakespearean sonnet.

It ain't great and I hoped it would be better, but it is what it is. Thoughts?

Seeing the Walls

A secretary bottles paradise
and keeps it in a fishtank by her desk.
She meets their lidless, iridescent eyes
and wonders if they find her own grotesque:
so red and heavy-lidded, bleary, dull,
and sending forth no light, as if to bar
all dreams of sunlit waters, calm and cool,
where fishers dive for pearls, sail by a star,
and swim to beaches of the whitest sand,
reflecting and suffusing all with light,
The fish are unaware that they’re on land,
content with four clear walls that bound their sight;
but she is slowly drowning in the air:
she struggled, but now settles down to bear.

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deletedorpurged:
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poetry mongers
Mon, Apr. 7th, 2008 02:29 am

Four Boys
Four boys took Sybil out on a Friday night to a National Park
It was black in and out and that famous falling star didn’t glow
Light pollution had took it, hid it, by giving in its spot an ivory bloom of clouds
That would flush at that night’s quick, animalistic rash of lust.
 
Four boys took Sybil out on a Friday night to a National Park
In which you couldn’t catch a wolf’s howl. Or a girl’s cry.
And in it was a cocoon of cottony dark -- Such dark! A girl could
Fall and abandon faith in that dark, slip into a shaking skin.
 
Four boys took Sybil out on a Friday night to a National Park
Sybil was a virgin, with blood-crimson lips and a child’s trust.
A child’s unfathoming purity, Sybil was a diamond without grit
Which must subsist only with a man’s claim. Or four boy’s claim.
 
Four boys took Sybil out on a Friday night to a National Park
And four boys stood at that Park’s lip, but tonight all would turn into a bound body
Sybil may rot among oaks, flora, fauna, transitioning to nothing… But four boys
Took Sybil out on a Friday Night, promising to watch stars fall, and all did.


I think the ending's kinda lame - anyone have any better ideas?

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deletedorpurged:
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poetry mongers
Sun, Apr. 6th, 2008 04:17 am

Julie
 
There’s six feet of dirt above her now
But here lies no bones, we haven’t found them yet
She was forty-nine when she died, and in life, she used to hate pictures
She’d turn her head and blush away from the flash
Here lies no bones, but the memory:
Of a house wife. A mother. A murder victim. A close family friend. Julie.
And she’s finally quiet: --
Because he stole her voice; the one that nagged constantly
Do the dishes. Mow the lawn. Balance our chequebook.
The one that taunted: your mother was right about you.
He took a hammer, that same one he used to dig rusty nails out of their daughter’s bedpost
And he put it through her skull. It made a cracking sound. Claudie, their daughter –
She was asleep in the next room, and Julie was nothing but a broken puppet in his arms.
He made her slump and helpless, feminine; finally emasculated her.
Carried her, the Classical God, to the river
- the river I walk past on my way home (I imagine the waves lapping the banks are her, smiling)
There’s six feet of dirt above you now, Julie
For each year she’s been gone, each year life goes on without her
Her killer and husband rots in jail, his hair white, a ghost;
Her daughter lives across the country with an aunt;
I visit her memorial every once in a while, but I have a life
After they announced her death on television, the pretty reporter moved on as well, ‘to other news…’
Her scars do not remain, and I want to apologize
But Julie would’ve wanted it to smooth over; she wouldn’t have wanted us to cry
She let the waves take her that night, let her body sink to the bottom
And now she’s alive in the laughing river, where children play every Saturday.
 

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littlemochatree:
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poetry mongers
Thu, Apr. 3rd, 2008 11:51 am

Yours Truly, Briefly, Jonathan Swift

I’m as young as my tongue
and a little bit older than my teeth.
We are all aging still,
but, still, I am newer everyday.

From my nail beds to my skin,
death is layered over life,
pushed up to the surface and
sloughed off by millions everyday.

Well, I can’t remember
whether dust is just
the build-up of cells
or primordial cosmic residue.

The whole wide world is a graveyard.

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littlemochatree:
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poetry mongers
Tue, Feb. 26th, 2008 12:00 am
Architects in Holland

Looking out over the polders,
they prepare for floods
with blueprints of houses made to float:

stark outlines of walls and windows
atop buoyed foundations

drafted in white and rolled up into cardboard tubes
and rolled back out onto glass tables.

There are plans for gardens and harbors;
there are plans for those who yearn for rivers,

discussed, erased, redrawn once more,
always with the image of levees,
bursting into rubble, in mind.



I'm fairly satisfied with this poem, but I wonder if it is too short or too vague. Thanks.

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cimeara:
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poetry mongers
Thu, Feb. 21st, 2008 05:35 pm

(1) No one else has shown anything with the image, (2) I've posted three critiques, (3) this place is so quiet even my nonsense might be welcome... well, maybe.   The poem's overblown, but the excuse is that it's built off an overblown heraldic term. Half going out, half going in.  Lay on. 

Engouled

Gag me with a --
   Babe in extremis, swallowed
Here, you don't want the
   Possibilities enfleshed and regurgitated
Slimy little bastard
   From the serpentine/uterine contractions
Shove it down
   Pushing past esophageal obstacles
Till it screams.
   Till it screams.
 

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satellite:
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poetry mongers
Wed, Jan. 23rd, 2008 10:56 pm

I've been mulling this poem over for a few weeks now, it's definitely not anywhere close to where I'd hope it could be. Specifically, I'd appreciate your impressions/input on what you see going on here? Am I borrowing a little to much from Judaism, does it alienate? I'm abandoning punctuation and form for now, which is a break from what I've been working with for the past two years, so please let me know if you think my freestylin' hinders or helps.

YitzchakCollapse )

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