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:

First Water, Then Fire

After so much lost blood,
in the middle of the flood,
there sat a warehouse burning
like an unforgotten yearning.
The Times-Picayune ran the headline:
"First water, then fire!"
And through the ruin I saw the sign
"I have no quarter," so dire!
But like those who roam while blind
we try harder, desperate desire,
and our tunes never fail, we find:
Our home, our New Orleans again,
river mud blended with August rain,
taste of cafe au lait to ease the pain,
crawfish éttouffée to feel the same.
Magnificent city, live oak trees
make a canopy in City Park,
or the French Quarter after dark,
smoothly, a trombonist breathes
brassy notes into the evening blue,
or lazy mansions, St Charles Avenue
a street car rolls, rumbling along,
its rhythm like an off beat song,
But then this feeble old city,
dilapidated shotgun houses,
cockroaches, poor men's doubts,
can seem nothing more,
than an over-hyped shanty town.
Even then, deep in the core,
I see glory through the frown.
First water, then fire.
It has always burned
as the Mississippi turned,
it rages like yellow fever
and floods of the past,
this city's rugged leisure,
so we raise the glass
to whores and striptease shows,
and for a bombastic toast
to Rex, King Mardi Gras
to shun vexing laws.
A sizzling second line,
twirl the parasol in time
for an involuntary dance,
or to St Louis Cathedral
for an ablutionary chance,
or renewal of a jazz funeral.
A jazz trumpet blows,
Dr John's piano rolls,
one parade comes to a close,
but we all know,
as soon as it's gone
another is ready to roll.
First water, then fire.

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