poetry critical

online poetry workshop

anger management

bring me your fist
let me rub
it's knuckle hard hunger,
move my lips
against rough edges,
coercing your hand
into a soft sleep

18 Dec 10

Rated 10 (4.8) by 1 users.
Active (1):
Inactive (5): 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 10

(define the words in this poem)
(213 more poems by this author)

(1 user considers this poem a favorite)

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lose its in L5.

intriguing write.

hunger is overused, but i think i can accept it here. undecided.

consider an echo of edges in the final line (sonics, meaning if you can get that in, too)
 — NicMichaels

 — unknown

'you think you can accept it here' starting to sound as arrogant as mike.
 — unknown

True arrogance posts anonymously! I humble myself by putting my name on my opinion. Try it sometime.

I like the sound of "arrow gaunt." Think I'll go write that.
 — NicMichaels

your name to your opinion makes it not arrogant? I didnt know that.
 — unknown

your logic is flawed. a rectangle is not a square, but a square is a rectangle.

this is a cool poem; it deserves more feedback, but i have nothing to add.
 — NicMichaels

^ that is not the author btw.
thanks nic for your feedback, if certain words bug you it's totally fine. certain words bug me all the time.
 — unknown

I quite like this, I definitely don't think it deserves a 1, so I'll push it up!  L6 and 7 present and interesting paradox: "coerce" and "soft sleep".
 — Caliana

thanks caliana
 — mandolyn

 — unknown

^ read it backwards
 — mandolyn

Nice.  Concise and poignant at the same time, not the easiest of two things to bring together.  
 — sybarite

thanks syb
 — mandolyn

wow, interesting and so silently violent.
nice poem
 — Estella

silently violent-- yes.
thanks stella bean.
 — mandolyn


 — unknown

^yes unk, seriously.

tis genuine. believable. something of mandee.

small, and could be fleshed out. or not. - but found in an honest place.

 — PollyReg

his fist is hard to soothe
 — mandolyn

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Emma Lazarus, 1883
 — Clara

^ ♥
 — mandolyn

Succinctly speaks to both the anger and the management of same; excellent write.
 — SilverGirl

thanks, silvergirl. i forgot about this one.
 — mandolyn

bring me your fist
let me rub
it's knuckle
hard hunger,
move my lips
against rough
edges, coercing
your hand
into soft sleep

just a suggestion. Enjoyed, thank you
 — poetanon

^thanks. wow this one is old...
 — mandolyn

*punch.  I like it.
 — percocet