poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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Welcome to Poetry Critical, an online poetry workshop. To post your own poetry you'll need to create a user id by typing a name and password in the box above and hitting 'New User'. If you just want to critique or jump into the discussion, however, you can go ahead and get started!

Poetry Critical 2.0

Hey guys, Donald here.

In a few weeks, this site will be 9 years old. 9 years! And I still know some of the earliest submissions by heart.

But, boy. That’s like 102 in web-years. So it’s time for something new. I’m building that something now with my nights-and-weekend minutes (and plenty of coffee). Buy me a cup?

Development updates from Twitter:

Follow @poetrycritical for more!

Random Poem:

adventure in surrealism, attending a 21st:

you were born white
somehow tulips kissed
erstwhile i was
bent thoughts, shrugging leather
and all leper
fist, then finger,
addressing the doorbell.
i guess black dresses and
shoulders and places to hug
are best kept refrigerated,
throw my hands in the fire,
can't let them thrill open the door.
some voice let me in
and i was sullen for a second,
brave on the red juice and
slipping on the white
side of brave.
something about my shoes,
my shirt, my voice, my
something something
where two hours ago i was safe
equanimity and a quiet regard
for jazz, popped over on a horse-
mix-minded was a cab,
the drinking was good
and saved me from reflection.
saw myself,
once or twice, trying to reach up past my shadow,
an eel of smiles and fucked up ditzy little proclamations.
wish i could have held myself together,
the cake like an iris,
watching the long knife carve its light
from it,
my body, like a sack
of potatoes
word-spew all across, heavy,
pulsing room .
i guess the couch, the comfort,
the warm screen light couldn't unwind me,
was done, mindless, gesturing
wild inside a schizo cup.
you would be right to roll me out,
lap my face with a tongue of acid,
brogue man, listing
against the wind,
would be right to
crown me fool,
but all you are is soft and flowering into
numbers i have already picked.
the sun grows wild in my eyes.
the next day i struggle for clarity,
though fear it equally.
there were people there i am sure,
in that thing of walls, polaroids
of skin, half-chatter and mild manners,
but i think i left my shadow in a bottle
let it roll about the floor.

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