poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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  • poems: 46,390 (9,597 active)
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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:

Martian Field Marshal Monkey Manque

The monkey woke one day and spread a limb
and spied a feather floating on his arm.
His eye followed a line, like owners of large limousines as he spied
a lustrous, varnished beaked addition to his charms.
Primeval breezes blew concentric ripples through his Martian monkey hair,
and made his nipples sting in heat's volcanic steam.
Laconically, he left the shelter of his monkey lair
to survey the reddened sky and dream of a day when he could say
"I once was merely monkey, living near my life support;
cosmic clusters of bananas kept me feeling funky, but now they all play jester to my court".
His roaring craft paints vapour trails across the sky.
His painted leather helmet and his demon goggles make him spry.
Rebels are concussed by large hairy coconuts.
In muted words they all recite,
"Hail field marshall Martian monkey, we too are Martian monkeys who will ever strive".
These flights of fancy rolled him to the corners of his earth.
He peered beyond the very edge to see what he was worth,
through solar winds and far flung things that never shall be free,
locked in grandiose designs that trap gorillas who will never see
that they are merely monkeys with dreams they can't afford.
The birds will soar and the dolphin dive;
the bees make honey in their hives.
Each place kept warm in the cosmic line,
and every morning each recites how pleased he is to be alive.

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