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Offline
Good evening, ladies and gents.

This is my third or fourth critique thread, and it comes to my attention that the past while, I've been neglecting my love of helping fellow poets out. I have decided to remedy this situation by re-opening my critique HOTLINE.

Now, these are a few simple rules I would like you to follow:

1. Please spell-check. I'm pretty lenient with typos, but when the poem is riddled with errors, I will refuse critique.
2. Please be civil and courteous about my responses to your poems. I will not make any personal attacks against you, and I do not intend to offend, only help edify your progress as a poet.
3. One poem may be submitted at a time. You may submit another one after the first one has been critiqued.
4. I like to interact with the poets I critique, so if I ask you a question about your poem in my critique, I expect a reply.
5. If there is something specific you would like me to address, let me know. Rhythm, rhyme, meter, usage of alliteration, imagery, etc.
6. If you edit your poem after I've critiqued it, show me the revised version, so that we can discuss it further and make sure it's shining it's brightest.

heart

OH, AND DO NOT HASSLE PEOPLE WHO POST THEIR POEMS IN MY THREAD. They are asking for my advice, not yours.

Thanks.

Offline
Horrorshow

She had pen knives in her eyes
and flies in her voice that exploded
into puffs of rainy clouds when she spoke

of angels and their role and life.
Like soldiers, soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair and
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.
Like The Alamo, life is her wrapped in a blanket
made of The Alamo.

'Are you sure those pen knives weren't for openning
letters from soldiers to their loved ones?'

reply: 'I did open them, the weepers he sent me;
the peep-show he sent me of nude horrors
with their ebony skin.'

Offline
Things that go bump in a glass of water

may not be made of mustard
music; victrola hurricanes
just as two dabs of dye
behind the ear

may not diffuse into conversation.
"Could I buy you a drink?" lost at sea,
hot sauce suspended in "hair important."

Squashed, like murderous jellies
into the pets of an ice tray lady
who cups her hand to hear herself better
sloshed in splashes of fly's emerald blood.

Seasoned, she keeps old at old bay,
lounging in a long open-backed dress,
waiting for the next white candle on the piano
to offer a light and run out.

Offline
Sournote Blues Bot v.TLS2
Horrorshow

She had pen knives in her eyes
and flies in her voice that exploded
into puffs of rainy clouds when she spoke

flies? Everything flows neatly and makes sense up until that. I'm not sure if you mean the little houseflies or what, but the image doesn't converge properly with what I've got going in my mind. And how about trying: "She had pen-knives for eyes" instead. It's much easier and eliminates the little words. Was the "flies" just to rhyme? In that case, find a better metaphor, because the forced rhyme makes for a forced-out image. 3nodding And how about "tufts" for "puffs"? Same taste, more elegant lettering. biggrin

of angels and their role and life.
Like soldiers, soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair and
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.
Like The Alamo, life is her wrapped in a blanket
made of The Alamo.

I'm not sure I see the reasoning behind setting this to a new verse. Could you please expound upon your thought process? I also think the comma between the "soldiers"s could be a dash, or a semi colon. Something other than a plain pausitory comma. I SEE!

of angels and their role in life.
Like soldiers--soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair--
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.

Okay, the last two lines are needing some common sense... You've repeated The Alamo, and I see no reason why. Can't the blanket be made of bullets or something less repetitive, yet descriptive?


'Are you sure those pen knives weren't for openning
letters from soldiers to their loved ones?'

Okay, backtrack. I don't see who "she" is. Or why her pen-knife eyes are opening letters. Unless this is clarified in the end of the poem, I don't see the connection. *looks further* Don't see it. Now see what you can do to fix that hole for me? Also, check spelling of 'opening'. wink

reply: 'I did open them, the weepers he sent me;
the peep-show he sent me of nude horrors
with their ebony skin.'

I have this glorious image of the inked letters morphing into charred bodies, crispy and mummified with the stench of gunpowder, but somehow, I don't think that is your intention. Perhaps you could string it together a little more coherently to show us such? Also, "weepers" is awfully gangly and awkward. I suggest losing it in favor of more eloquent and formal wording.

Offline
Box
If it's not too much trouble...

-

This corrugated cardboard mask
enshrouds me
in its artificial night,
mad scribblings
jotted here and there and blank sections
which I may never fulfill,
pausing only to sharpen
with a peasant's pocket knife.

Who may know the story of this vagrant,
who chained himself to his own domain,
maned like a lion yet he
cursed cowardly at
the boarded windows?

The room is one color anyway,
yet that scent of bent identity
never relents, and that woman
who once shared the shameful feeling
of being observed is somewhere past
that barricaded double door.

But the last entry ends with
an ambulance siren,
the whispered words of "Who am I?"
absorbed by the walls.

Offline
ArmorFelix
Things that go bump in a glass of water

Nice title, love.

may not be made of mustard
music; victrola hurricanes
just as two dabs of dye
behind the ear

"mustard music" makes me think of yellow-bellied musicians hiding behind other's creative work. *shrug* I can also see this little whirlwind coming up from a little victrola. biggrin Interesting! However, I fail to see how it relates to dabs of dye behind ears.

may not diffuse into conversation.
"Could I buy you a drink?" lost at sea,
hot sauce suspended in "hair important."

Wow. This is what I love and hate about your poems. they're so colorful, vibrant, full of images and insane spheres of thought, but they never really make coherent sense. Maybe you could offer a salted margarita in the salty sea. Like that saying "Just wanting a glass of fresh water when surrounded by salty sea." Hot sauce hair? Red head?


Squashed, like murderous jellies
into the pets of an ice tray lady
who cups her hand to hear herself better
sloshed in splashes of fly's emerald blood.

The sea? Trying to hear herself better?

Seasoned, she keeps old at old bay,
lounging in a long open-backed dress,
waiting for the next white candle on the piano
to offer a light and run out.

I suggest breaking up the line after next. it looks snazzier to me. I really really like this last verse, it made the most sense. Metaphorically, I saw white candle as an old white man with a lighter, dribbling down to death before being able to offer a light.

Offline
`Kira
Box
If it's not too much trouble...

-

This corrugated cardboard mask enshrouds me
in its artificial night,
mad scribblings
jotted here and there and blank sections
which I may never fill fully,
pausing only to sharpen
with a peasant's pocket knife.

Nice. You know how to use alliteration well. I suggest breaking up the first line after mask, unless you're doing some sort of rhyme scheme, which I think rhymes don't have to be on the last word of the line. It is my opinion that internal and alliterative rhyme are more effective and less susceptible to being in control of the poem. The poet should be in control, because they are the ones placing the words. Anywho, rant aside. I also suggest replacing "fill fully" with "fulfill" because it's easier on the tongue, and also plays the cards right metaphorically. I love the last line. biggrin

Who may know the story of this vagrant, who
chained himself to his own domain,
maned like a lion yet he had
cursed cowardly at
the boarded windows?

The sad little "who" all lonely on the prepice of the verse! I suggest having it travel to the next line. wink The "had" on the end of line three is unnecessary, and clutters the rhythm. Nice concept, though! Very nice. smile

The room is one color anyway,
yet that scent of bent identity
never relents, and that woman
who once shared the shameful feeling
of being observed is somewhere past that
barricaded double door.

I love this verse. Just move the "that" at the end of line five to the next line. Pronouns, ands, thes, etc. do not belong as a focal point at the end of a line.

But the last entry ends in
an ambulance siren, and the
whispered words of "Who am I?"
absorbed by the walls.

Check your line endings, here, love. There are several little words hanging on the cliffs of your lines, and they're not strong enough to hold themselves up.

Offline
Aehlae
Sournote Blues Bot v.TLS2
Horrorshow

She had pen knives in her eyes
and flies in her voice that exploded
into puffs of rainy clouds when she spoke

flies? Everything flows neatly and makes sense up until that. I'm not sure if you mean the little houseflies or what, but the image doesn't converge properly with what I've got going in my mind. And how about trying: "She had pen-knives for eyes" instead. It's much easier and eliminates the little words. Was the "flies" just to rhyme? In that case, find a better metaphor, because the forced rhyme makes for a forced-out image. 3nodding And how about "tufts" for "puffs"? Same taste, more elegant lettering. biggrin

of angels and their role and life.
Like soldiers, soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair and
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.
Like The Alamo, life is her wrapped in a blanket
made of The Alamo.

I'm not sure I see the reasoning behind setting this to a new verse. Could you please expound upon your thought process? I also think the comma between the "soldiers"s could be a dash, or a semi colon. Something other than a plain pausitory comma. I SEE!

of angels and their role in life.
Like soldiers--soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair--
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.

Okay, the last two lines are needing some common sense... You've repeated The Alamo, and I see no reason why. Can't the blanket be made of bullets or something less repetitive, yet descriptive?


'Are you sure those pen knives weren't for openning
letters from soldiers to their loved ones?'

Okay, backtrack. I don't see who "she" is. Or why her pen-knife eyes are opening letters. Unless this is clarified in the end of the poem, I don't see the connection. *looks further* Don't see it. Now see what you can do to fix that hole for me? Also, check spelling of 'opening'. wink

reply: 'I did open them, the weepers he sent me;
the peep-show he sent me of nude horrors
with their ebony skin.'

I have this glorious image of the inked letters morphing into charred bodies, crispy and mummified with the stench of gunpowder, but somehow, I don't think that is your intention. Perhaps you could string it together a little more coherently to show us such? Also, "weepers" is awfully gangly and awkward. I suggest losing it in favor of more eloquent and formal wording.
I didn't use flies to rhyme with knives.

I started a new verse in the middle of the sentence because first I talk of (a small) part of her apperance and then of her life so I thought it might be better collected that way.

I guess I could just striked out 'Like the Alamo...' and leave the rest of the sentence as it is so that it stops being repetitive. I don't want a blanket of bullets or dragoons or any such thing, I want the collective image: all the chaos of the battle.

Should I repost the edited version or edit on the original post?

Offline
Aehlae
ArmorFelix
Things that go bump in a glass of water

Nice title, love.

may not be made of mustard
music; victrola hurricanes
just as two dabs of dye
behind the ear

"mustard music" makes me think of yellow-bellied musicians hiding behind other's creative work. *shrug* I can also see this little whirlwind coming up from a little victrola. biggrin Interesting! However, I fail to see how it relates to dabs of dye behind ears.

may not diffuse into conversation.
"Could I buy you a drink?" lost at sea,
hot sauce suspended in "hair important."

Wow. This is what I love and hate about your poems. they're so colorful, vibrant, full of images and insane spheres of thought, but they never really make coherent sense. Maybe you could offer a salted margarita in the salty sea. Like that saying "Just wanting a glass of fresh water when surrounded by salty sea." Hot sauce hair? Red head?


Squashed, like murderous jellies
into the pets of an ice tray lady
who cups her hand to hear herself better
sloshed in splashes of fly's emerald blood.

The sea? Trying to hear herself better?

Seasoned, she keeps old at old bay,
lounging in a long open-backed dress,
waiting for the next white candle on the piano
to offer a light and run out.

I suggest breaking up the line after next. it looks snazzier to me. I really really like this last verse, it made the most sense. Metaphorically, I saw white candle as an old white man with a lighter, dribbling down to death before being able to offer a light.


Line break on the second to last line? It shall be considered, swishy porcupine empress of diamond. wink

Interesting that you mention mustard as leading you to think of cowardice, I wanted to do that with another poem with plain old yella, and hoped that mustard would shift the connotation a little. Maybe not! (Hmm, maybe this poem would look neat in rainbow font).

I'm thought about my poems being sort of like a persona fusion, themes (like two different species of monster) that don't seem to go together, but do (and thus, create a third species). The mention of the dye acts as junction with the colors mentioned, and may metaphorically make her ear like the glass of water, or glassy-- there's not one definite interpretation, but I have a few theories (The goal is for the reader to be able to look at the thematic associations in different ways each time they look at the poem)

Hot sauce was more intended as the man's speech, or his opinion of himself (as hot stuff) being lost in the needs of her hair. Usually you'll cup your hand to hear something or somebody else better, hence she's a bit self-absorbed.

*explanation flailing* xd

The offering of the margarita in the salted sea seems like a good way to incorporate action into the piece, however I think this would work best in prose, get some symbolic action in there (for the history of this drink, the ancients considered it to be the blood of a wyrm or some such)

Much thoughts! *Plunger TNT heart explosion*

Maybe I should start working from the end of my poems, sometimes one can only get in a groove after writing for a bit.

Offline
Sournote Blues Bot v.TLS2
Aehlae
Sournote Blues Bot v.TLS2
Horrorshow

She had pen knives in her eyes
and flies in her voice that exploded
into puffs of rainy clouds when she spoke

flies? Everything flows neatly and makes sense up until that. I'm not sure if you mean the little houseflies or what, but the image doesn't converge properly with what I've got going in my mind. And how about trying: "She had pen-knives for eyes" instead. It's much easier and eliminates the little words. Was the "flies" just to rhyme? In that case, find a better metaphor, because the forced rhyme makes for a forced-out image. 3nodding And how about "tufts" for "puffs"? Same taste, more elegant lettering. biggrin

of angels and their role and life.
Like soldiers, soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair and
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.
Like The Alamo, life is her wrapped in a blanket
made of The Alamo.

I'm not sure I see the reasoning behind setting this to a new verse. Could you please expound upon your thought process? I also think the comma between the "soldiers"s could be a dash, or a semi colon. Something other than a plain pausitory comma. I SEE!

of angels and their role in life.
Like soldiers--soldiers weaving battle cries
from mother's hopes and hair--
decomposed prayers rotting in history books.

Okay, the last two lines are needing some common sense... You've repeated The Alamo, and I see no reason why. Can't the blanket be made of bullets or something less repetitive, yet descriptive?


'Are you sure those pen knives weren't for openning
letters from soldiers to their loved ones?'

Okay, backtrack. I don't see who "she" is. Or why her pen-knife eyes are opening letters. Unless this is clarified in the end of the poem, I don't see the connection. *looks further* Don't see it. Now see what you can do to fix that hole for me? Also, check spelling of 'opening'. wink

reply: 'I did open them, the weepers he sent me;
the peep-show he sent me of nude horrors
with their ebony skin.'

I have this glorious image of the inked letters morphing into charred bodies, crispy and mummified with the stench of gunpowder, but somehow, I don't think that is your intention. Perhaps you could string it together a little more coherently to show us such? Also, "weepers" is awfully gangly and awkward. I suggest losing it in favor of more eloquent and formal wording.
I didn't use flies to rhyme with knives.

I started a new verse in the middle of the sentence because first I talk of (a small) part of her apperance and then of her life so I thought it might be better collected that way.

I guess I could just striked out 'Like the Alamo...' and leave the rest of the sentence as it is so that it stops being repetitive. I don't want a blanket of bullets or dragoons or any such thing, I want the collective image: all the chaos of the battle.

Should I repost the edited version or edit on the original post?


You could, I'd like to see both versions at once, though.

Offline
ArmorFelix
Aehlae
ArmorFelix
Things that go bump in a glass of water

Nice title, love.

may not be made of mustard
music; victrola hurricanes
just as two dabs of dye
behind the ear

"mustard music" makes me think of yellow-bellied musicians hiding behind other's creative work. *shrug* I can also see this little whirlwind coming up from a little victrola. biggrin Interesting! However, I fail to see how it relates to dabs of dye behind ears.

may not diffuse into conversation.
"Could I buy you a drink?" lost at sea,
hot sauce suspended in "hair important."

Wow. This is what I love and hate about your poems. they're so colorful, vibrant, full of images and insane spheres of thought, but they never really make coherent sense. Maybe you could offer a salted margarita in the salty sea. Like that saying "Just wanting a glass of fresh water when surrounded by salty sea." Hot sauce hair? Red head?


Squashed, like murderous jellies
into the pets of an ice tray lady
who cups her hand to hear herself better
sloshed in splashes of fly's emerald blood.

The sea? Trying to hear herself better?

Seasoned, she keeps old at old bay,
lounging in a long open-backed dress,
waiting for the next white candle on the piano
to offer a light and run out.

I suggest breaking up the line after next. it looks snazzier to me. I really really like this last verse, it made the most sense. Metaphorically, I saw white candle as an old white man with a lighter, dribbling down to death before being able to offer a light.


Line break on the second to last line? It shall be considered, swishy porcupine empress of diamond. wink

Interesting that you mention mustard as leading you to think of cowardice, I wanted to do that with another poem with plain old yella, and hoped that mustard would shift the connotation a little. Maybe not! (Hmm, maybe this poem would look neat in rainbow font).

I'm thought about my poems being sort of like a persona fusion, themes (like two different species of monster) that don't seem to go together, but do (and thus, create a third species). The mention of the dye acts as junction with the colors mentioned, and may metaphorically make her ear like the glass of water, or glassy-- there's not one definite interpretation, but I have a few theories (The goal is for the reader to be able to look at the thematic associations in different ways each time they look at the poem)

Hot sauce was more intended as the man's speech, or his opinion of himself (as hot stuff) being lost in the needs of her hair. Usually you'll cup your hand to hear something or somebody else better, hence she's a bit self-absorbed.

*explanation flailing* xd

The offering of the margarita in the salted sea seems like a good way to incorporate action into the piece, however I think this would work best in prose, get some symbolic action in there (for the history of this drink, the ancients considered it to be the blood of a wyrm or some such)

Much thoughts! *Plunger TNT heart explosion*

Maybe I should start working from the end of my poems, sometimes one can only get in a groove after writing for a bit.


rofl I think sometimes you think to much about what you write. wink In any right. I WANT TO COLLAB WITH YOU AGAIN SOOON! biggrin

Offline
Ah, thank you for the critique. And if you feel to recheck, I have edited the original post. Thank you again.

Offline
We Force Identity



1.|xxAre we not infinitely
xxxxlucky?
xxxx To have (against our what -
xxxxOur will?) such gifts
xxxxwill incur not
xxxxJealous Wrath,
xxxxbut rather strangled appreciation
xxxxthrough Instant Gratification.
xxxxPoor men, rich men have
xxxxsomething in common. Proof[!]
xxxxProof that miracles happen
xxxxand the blind man reads.
xxxxSign of greeting, of love
xxxxof rudeness of dis missal.


2. We are the police.
xxxx(we catch criminals we catch criminals)
xxxxWe wade through spoon-fed conformity
xxxxAnd force identity into ungrateful throats.

xxxx(We ruin art) Nothing
xxxxshall be left unexplored
xxxxuntainted
xxxxuntouched
xxxxun.
xxxxWe are not gifts,
xxxxwe are not burdens.
xxxx(We are struggling to breathe)


3.xxxxThey could bury -
xxxxThey could bring the world to a
xxxxs
xxxxc
xxxxr
xxxxe
xxxxe
xxxxc
xxxxh
xxxxi
xxxxn
xxxxg
xxxxhalt.
xxxxxxxxBut I never needed proof.
xxxxTogether they would pick up the
xxxxbr oke n and fix.
xxxxAnd glorify.
xxxxAnd love.
xxxxGripping the world
xxxxas we grip our compatriots

Dapper Smoker

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Offline
Scatterbrain

I'm losing the will to work it out again.
Misplaced it in the back of my mind,
locked it all away with the world I'm watching
and fleeting thoughts that I'm trying to avoid.

It's dusty back there, worn and woven from my
studied ignorance of all the things I want
to leave behind. I can't help the build up;
there's just so much s**t to bury,
too many paths that need renewal
and other places my feet won't go.

Come crashing to a halt, break it all,
throw these childhood traumas away
and make like it’s another life I never lived.
Anything, everything, just let me float
super smooth, away, over all of the rest.

My mind's a mess, fractured bones, carved ivory
remnants from the recent past. Remote places
play themselves out every night like brochures;
advertising the sights and sounds of Nepal, New York,
Neverland. All these bits and pieces of a puzzle
that, even if my shaking limbs would let me, can
never be completed. To know all is to blaspheme,
and hell, I can't afford another oddity clinging to me,
trying to bring me down.

Offline
The Importance of Pennies


In an old stone well
hundreds upon hundreds of
little copper pennies lie
with their wishes that do not fade
in the depth.

Just like hopes and dreams and little pennies

that would shine and darken
at the drop of a hat,

something about your voice
your words
that enrage and proclaim and subdue

collects within me
as life still grows,
day by day,
fuller.

And in that moment,
as I dropped my little wish into water,
and imposed my will and thoughts
into the air and breath that we shared

I knew I was collecting in me
what I would make in you.
Gaia Forums » MISC Forums » Forum & Sticky Archive » Original Poetry/Lyrics

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