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:

The Necromancer

I'm a long way from the days
of women throwing their underwear at me,
of riding in the back of limousines jacked-up on blow
and pills and denial, too shit-faced to find my fight gate number.
Waking up in strange beds with stranger people
wearing someone else's clothes, or none at all -
trying hard to avoid chemical withdrawal, police interest
and my tormented self.
For years I neglected my own redemption
because I knew the price of freedom was death.
On the way to the forests of Bountiful
I stop outside the Utah Symphony and Opera,
press my ear against a wall
and listen to the muffled sounds of an orchestra
performing The Creatures of Prometheus.
The cool Salt Lake air and the sounds of Luwig Van
more than make up for the barriers that separate us.
The concert ends, I stub my roach and make my way to the exit.
I sit on a short stone wall with an empty cup,
a mini-flashlight between my teeth
and Dostoyevsky on my lap.
Being legally insane doesn't deter people from shouting
'get a fucking job' as they leave the auditorium
on an perfect summer Saturday night -
it perpetuates it.
I pass the Temple Square and the free AIDS clinic,
pause under the neon marquee of a 24-hour liquor
and count my winnings.
My cup is half full.
Which means about two meals or a pint of cheap vodka.
The choices of the Steppenwolves.
I make the trek into the forest,
lay on my back and drink the fermented potato mash.
I stare up through contented pines at an avalanche of stars
and absorb the magnificent sublimity of my own death.
And I am redeemed.

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