poetry critical

online poetry workshop



indecision flawed
amy

she opened a new door and you walked
 1
shoulders slouched
 2
through
 3
 
 
you glanced back at sun and meadow
 4
the green of the trees against
 5
the azure
 6
 
 
but still you walked
 7
a weak wave and
 8
longing grin
 9
 
 
now spiral caught hold
 10
pulls
 11
life from your soul
 12
the flow from your words
 13
 
 
today the tiny hand rests in yours
 14
day and night
 15
just as it would had you instead
 16
closed the door
 17

17 Sep 18

Rated 8 (8) by 2 users.
Active (2): 6, 10
Inactive (0):

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



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Comments:

  If you’re going to rate my poem six, will you please leave a comment?
 — amy

I am  not the one who left you the six, but I will try to critique this for you.

The title for me is inverted for no apparent reason.

"shoulders" in V1 is not needed, "slouched" gives a mental image that does that job in its own right.

"Sky" should come after "azure" as some readers will ask themselves "against azure" what? You may think that "sky" is obvious, but that is not the point.
Azure Sea; for instance, like the meadow and trees are backed by the sea.

Now for the hard bit, and this hard to explain, the poem overall is not right,
yes I know what you are saying, ie, the theme (man meets new woman, has head turned, starts family) but you are saying it in a manner that to me is flat;
you are "telling" me rather than "showing" me. Look those two points up, poetic prose too. Poetry is hard!! I would recommend reading a lot more of it, Try "Sharon Olds" for somewhere to start.
 — unknown

this critic above has no business critiquing poetry. he's critiquing prose, and even so memo prose. poetry is music is the replication of the of the unity of mind and body. it's not information data, it's information 'by' aesthetic.

sharon olds is an absolute fake, a novel writer with too short an attention span to write one. these people use poetry as a cheap means to attention. there's no poetry in her writing, just narcissist vanity looking for adoration.

"just about at the triple-barrelled pistol i can't go on." this is poetry critical first year writing pretending to be poetry. the arch wordiness of it isn't poetry, it's just clever junked prose. prose is prose. let prose die out -- let people send important memo shit directly from head to head. poetry is still wording, still dancing with the world through wording. YOU MUST READ A POEM OUT-LOUD to find the poetry in the poem.

today the tiny hand rests in yours
day and night
just as it would had you instead
closed the door.

now, is nurse-unknown ( cowardly unk ) going to say that this stanza is hygienically un-clean? un-pure because of the line breaks? and, using the poem itself as punctuation -- which means punctuation is for Reading Control, not as a sign you have a high-class sensibility, nor as fascist crowd control. you read the words where they are placed and the placement itself shows you the weight of the word in the phrase.

the title of the site is poetry critical. it's about poetry -- not, about business english -- and the mode is 'critical'. therefore, here, we also critique the critics. That's why this site is so important. poetry is more important here than the poet, and certainly more important than the critics. i yield back to the poem and am now going to re-read it.
 — cadmium

Hahahaha, if you take any notice of Cadmium you will be doing yourself a great disservice, he knows zilch about poetry, read the "poems" he has submitted and you will see the truth of this. He tells you that "Sharon Olds" is "an absolute fake!!"
God help us, she's a Pulitzer prize winning poet; amongst other acknowledgements. But guess what? Cadmium knows better. Do you think Cadmium has ever had one poem even published?And if he has it was'nt recent, there is no way any publication would accept what he writes, how do I know? because I submit entries myself (which need to go through editors to be accepted, not like here where you just press a button.

Start with Sharon Olds like I suggested, and forget his nonsense, or you will never improve.

PS, A thing isn't a poem just because you leave out punctuation and never cap an I. Cadmium obviously thinks it is.
 — unknown

i've been published since 1963. i'm in the harvard college lamont poetry collection, both in print and as a tape recording of reading, done in 1966. i've been published by phil taggart, which is an honor. also, here and there in small poetry magazines. i'm not going to use the cliche, i've  paid my dues', but i have been involved in poetry and poetry writing since i was seven years old. that's sixty-five years.

the pulitzer is a prize given by prose writers. that says it all. pulitzer wants a poetry which is easier to read, a sensitive poetry for vapid and uncreative people -- prosers: people who USE the world as though the things in it were snacks. short-brain poetry said with contrived line breaks, and said over and over. linear stupid writing. poetry for people who meter-out their emotions so's they'll have some left for looking in the mirror to see if they're getting old. not a poetry readership.

poetry isn't this special act of saying something sensitive. it's an act which makes the reader a poet. my goal in my writing is to make the reader want to write a poem too -- one to either use the new consciousness they've found -- as from my 'quartet' -- or, to write back in anger over some little lite-verse lyric i've tapped out. either is real and both involve the reader in a way that a passive reader can't be involved reading short-stories-too-precious to be written in paragraphs.
 — cadmium

A quote from Cadmium's post.

"poetry is music is the replication of the of the unity of mind and body. it's not information data, it's information 'by' aesthetic."

Hiya Amy. If you think the above " pearl of wisdom" from Cadmium helps you improve your poetry then your onto a winner.  

You already had the right instincts, your piece was echoing the human condition(which has untold variations,) and if you can connect with the reader on an emotional level when they are reading your stuff you will be on your way. You do this by employing what makes poetry poetry. NOT "information by aesthetic,"
whatever that means!!!!
 — unknown

https://poetryandpoet.blog/
 — cadmium

Cadmium Quote.
"The pulitzer is a prize given by prose writers"

That you know nothing of "prose poetry" Sums it up. Like I say you know Zilch.

I look forward to reading one of your published poems!!
 — unknown

the poem created is a part of nature. the human condition is creativity. passive consumption of data isn't creative, it's digestive. the emotion and feelings are dissolved out and what's left is just safe, head-patting, nursing, fill you with nestle soy-formula journalist sludge.

the poem makes the reader dance: that small change of the body you feel when you move with the writing. not the jerk of 'oh, i feel like i'm seeing this myself', but the rhythm of actually helping to create the poem as you read it.

i had several pre-law and pre-med friends at harvard who 'wrote' poetry. it was all about how someone should change and become conscious of how wonderful the author was. if people like that aren't successful, they crud up the world with their vanity ego shit, and some corrupt body like 'the poetry foundation' grabs it, cause the author is suitable and says such important things about  the fear we might have of food-processors looking wrong in an un-re-decorated kitchen and the poolboy.
 — cadmium

http://poetrycritic al.net/read/84584/

i think this is working because it's a conversion of prose-poem voice into an actual poetry voice. you ought to be able to see the change and why it works.

i still like this poem.
 — cadmium

Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen, 1893 - 1918


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


Read this poem above, marvel at its descriptive imagery, its brilliant rhyming
its fully fledged story, its human condition to name but a few; and then digest the poetry that Cadmium wants to feed you, (that's if you can even understand half the tripe he comes out with).

The Wilfred Owen poem above is a famous poem; it employs many properties that make poetry poetry. And, it's written in iambic pentameter to boot.
 — unknown

it's prose. les anglais are afraid of life.
 — cadmium

she opened a new door
and you slouched through

with a weak wave
and a longing glance back

at sun and meadow
the trees against an azure sky

life pulled from your soul
the flow from your words

today the tiny hand
rests in yours

just as it would
had you closed the door
 — unknown

it's prose. les anglais are afraid of life.
 — cadmium

Like I said. you know zilch about poetry.
 — unknown

With punctuation this time.


She opened a new door
and you slouched through

with a weak wave
and a longing glance back

at sun and meadow;
the trees against an azure sky.

Life pulled from your soul,
the flow from your words.

Today the tiny hand
rests in yours;

just as it would
had you closed the door.
 
 — unknown

cadmium

Like I said. you know zilch about poetry.
— unknown         &nbs p;[!]
 — cadmium

you alawys tell.... you're a little fascist ideaologue. you never give us freedom to become. you're a bully. show us some poetry of your own. i know you wrote, "queers must die" and other unk posted favorites, but that got deleted by the mods. post with ypur name. we won't care.
 — cadmium

Cadmium said.

you alawys tell.... you're a little fascist ideaologue. you never give us freedom to become. you're a bully. show us some poetry of your own. i know you wrote, "queers must die" and other unk posted favorites, but that got deleted by the mods. post with ypur name. we won't care.
 — cadmium

I always tell what? The truth?

Well the "fascist" card came sooner than I thought, obviously it is being played to try and cover your inadequate knowledge of poetry.

You spelt "ideaologue" wrong.
You spelt "alaways" wrong.
You spelt "ypur" wrong.
You spelt "favorites" wrong.

I never give you "freedom" to become what?

You know I wrote "queers must die," of course you do, your a seer now.

I'm sure if the "mods" knew I wrote such shit then I would be deleted from the site, but hey, any mud slinging to muddy the waters of your lack of poetic nous.
 — unknown

I want Mr. C to publish his full canon on here just to prove that its not a load of balls. The very least it can do is have us laughing and the very most it can do is...have us rolling around on the floor in helpless mirth.
 — unknown

unk, do you really want amy to see you this way? don't you want her to take you seriously?

today the tiny hand rests in yours
day and night
just as it would have had you instead
closed the door
 — cadmium

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