poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Current Stats
  • poems: 45,952 (8,909 active)
  • comments: 307,712
  • ratings: 112,195
  • average rating: 7.5
  • forum posts: 247,485
  • users: 10,009 (118 active)
  • current users: 2


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:


A good ol' redneck boy lived down in Texas
In a good ol' redneck town called Nowheresville;
He looked out down his dreary little Main Street,
Its 4x4s and burger bars a joy to see
And thought, "Sure as Hell's there's someplace better 'n this
Where Ah kin visit, now my poor Jackie's gone to Heav'n,
Fightin' furr his flag in distant I-rake,
Where some heathen towelhead didn't com-pree-hind
That he'd come to save him for the Lawd and dee-mock-raycee
And (thinkin' Jackie's come to steal his Oil and shoot his kiddies)
Shoved a gray-nade up his patriotic Yankee asshole,
Which sure as eggs is eggs made sweeping up real hard
Seein's as how the bodybag they sent us had but scraps in."
And so that redneck boy got on his horse "Ole Nigger",
And mosey’d right on to the travel agent's shop,
Saying "Yeehah, boy, Ah sure would like to see the world
Now Ah ain't got no goddam heir to leave mah dollars to,
No one to beee-queath mah ranch and mangy cows to.
You know mah family name is McNamara
And my dear ol' mom's first name was Jock,
So I reckon I must be Scottish and I shore feel proud o' that.
So I gotta see me those Scottish Highlands,
Play me some golf and guzzle down a quart
Or three or ten of rare old mountain malt,
An' then mebbe, ma good ol' lady, bless her obese ass,
Can buy herself some nice plaid placemats
For us to put upon our groaning table
When next we have a family Bar-B-Q."
The travel agent looked real inter-rested
Seeing he'd had a real bad business day
Having sold but two Greyhound tickets to Houston
For some boys he'd swear were dirty faggots.
"Mind you boy," quoth next our stalwart hero,
"Don't book me into no Edinberg as that sounds
Kinda like a Jewboy town and I don't hold with that."
So off he flew from Dallas Fort Worth Airport
With his newly minted US passport in his pants,
His wife and he weighed five hundred pounds between them
So their buttocks had to go as excess baggage
(Well, not really folks, but speaking frankly,
No aircraft seats are built to house such beasts).
He had to change planes once in New York City
But was damned if he'd get out and visit
Such a den of crime and delinquency,
Full of Wall Street smarties, grinning Jews
And liberal-minded pinko fairy assholes.
After gorging on an endless, tasteless
Feast of US airline slop and free weak beers
Our heroes came down to earth in earthy Glasgow,
Which they were surprised to find a mighty city
Not just some cute little Scottish township,
Filled with of pipers, kilts, just like Brigadoon.
And so he came to see the glorious Highlands,
The Great Glen, the lochs and cute wee Arisaig:
"Gee whiz" he thought "This sure is friggin' awesome,
We don't have this in our lovely Lone Star state
Although we could afford to ship it piecemeal."
He played golf in hideous tartan troosers,
Pathetic portly pillock striding over link and heather;
He tried every brand of golden malted liquor
He could lay his podgy paws on, not knowing
They were marked up but watered down with cowpiss;
He bought a tartan tam o'shanter in the garish hues
Of the non-existent McNamara clan,
But he didnae ken 'twas newly minted
For rubberneckers by the Scottish Tourist Board.
He loved those lil' ol' glens and lochs and mountains,
He loved his lil' ol' B&B, with its phoney
Antlers in the hallway and malt whisky marmalade
And genuine Scots hospitality at only twice the normal price.
Gee, if only he'd been born in Scotland
Instead of Nowheresville TX (USA);
Gee if only son Jack hadn't been a soldier
And had his big fat bollocks blown to Kingdom come;
Gee but you cain't turn back that lil' old clock
'Cuz the Good Lord, he don't operate that way.
And so, many thousand dollars the lighter,
Mary Lou and he went back to Hicksville,
No wiser for their only visit to the real world,
Looking forward to a well-done T-bone
Big enough to feed a dozen children
Starving in a shitty shanty village,
Denied the drugs their fascist government
Is too criminally mean to give.
Once they'd landed back on Texas' sacred US soil
And waddled through the armed guards' welcome posse
(A Homeland need now that Uncle Sam was worldwide-hated),
He and Mary Lou knew they were back in Godzone landscape,
Far from the homo-liberal atmosphere of old Europe.
So they climbed into their huge gas-guzzling auto,
Gazing fondly round them at the fat folks just like them,
Reg'lar guys who knew not Kyoto from cockadoodie,
Folks who loved the cut-price smell of greenhouse gases,
And what a joy their State was free from dirty commie thinking!
Gee it was great to be back in goddam civilization
And how sad their son had died to keep America brave and free.

(comment on this poem)