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:


Tengo un gatito bonito del sexo,
que lee como gritos de Hitler,
bailamos al Nirvana,
y la rima como un coro borracho,
y cuando jodemos su que quiere clásica tres armonía del pedazo,
y si usted toca esa chica yo tiraré mi .45,
marca que usted baila como una ramera y entonces  joderemos unos más,
bajaremos a la playa y jugaremos alguna guitarra
* apathy my drug—
a morphine drip,
clutters my hospital room.
one year to the day—
my wrist,
a perversion of modern art
painted in scar tissue.
bare ascetic walls,
crumbling beige plaster (like prison)
I don't know where I am…
days go by like dreams,
as foreign as time,
then cold night— reality
how many times have I crossed the border?
all the same desolate resort
the refugee of culture
(time and place)
with dusty boots,
lying in the middle
of a half-opened door
that won't soon be closed.
old dingy clothes,
lie lifeless in malaise
on an unplugged radio/ TV.
a crust of pizza,
overlooks the beer bottles
from the bed stand vista.
he lies face down
one arm[hanging off] the bed
sand blankets the sheets
oblivious nirvana sleep
laissez-faire perfection
in a scene of contradiction—
dozens of cigarette buts
litter the tin can ash tray.
underneath The Stranger.
searching in obscurity,
the undeniable “it”
that heaviness that transcends borders
parked outside with no one in sight—
miles of highway too keep him safe.
an old rebuilt mustang (cherry red)
parked crooked by the door.
a Georgia Plate— effete scratches
tell of the journey—
*   the calling, the curse

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