I am a bit of a poet/writer. I understand that you said this was recovered during clean up, but I'd like to give a bit of constructive criticism, if I
There are a lot of abstractions in your poem. The most important thing about a poem is to appeal to the reader's senses. You must be very specific and
detailed. Show things, don't just "tell them." Poetry is very boring and difficult to read when you tell what things are like instead of "showing."
You must describe what things feel like, not just say what it felt like. You must describe sensations of touch, taste, smell etc. While it isn't
necessary to describe everything, there are several places where I felt like I was being told instead of shown. There is a lot of imagery in this
poem, but I don't get a sense of vertical movement. Where is this poem going? What is its end result?
Try not to mix metaphors either. Just pick a metaphor and go with it.
That's the short of it. I'm always happy to do a full-detailed peer review of poems. I have the feeling that nobody will actually take me up on that
If you ever need a critique, advice on poetry, or help writing..I can help. Just for the sake of this thread, I dug up a "hate poem" that I wrote in
college. It's one of the kookiest poems I wrote!
“At the Park” Performed by Four Dadaist Troupers--
I use the spectacles of hindsight
To look in on a summer afternoon.
You and I became drowsy after a basketball game
And propped our heads against a garbage can.
A cloudless day, we lied in the shade,
Picking at bugs’ legs, then stabbing their bodies
With blunt twigs. I recall the sharp blades
Of mown grass bent beneath our sweaty T-shirts.
Aiming pointed rocks at squirrels was a serious contest
Between us. Winner takes all. Losers weep.
Safe in our soapbox of playground equipment and wood pulp
There was a vista of the goings-on in the street.
We saw a thug in a rapid gait, gripping a baseball bat with black
Electrical tape on the handle. The aluminum club landed
On some obscure hero’s shoulder. A heavy thud
And the sustained tautness of his vocal chords sparked the overture.
The victim drew his shining keys and glided, by way
Of an invisible chandelier, into the leather seat of a sports car.
The antagonist taunted, swung overhead, and hammered a “Y”
Into the windshield. It soon became a map of the Nile River Delta.
The audience, front row—you and I, witnessed the drama.
Sometimes the name is foggy, but I often picture
Your face, skinned and bloodied, stamped
Into a patina of gravel chunks, walk-of-fame style.
After the man in the car made his escape
I licked my lips, tasting bitter iron and salt. I sucked air
Down through my nostrils, gagging on a fistful
Of congealed blood and pushed it out my throat.
I hated you seeing it; bulbous, dark red, soft-beating.
You exited through the damask tapestry. Then, my villain co-star
Arrived, on cue, to wipe the bravado clean from my face.
And there would be no witnesses.
edit on 27-8-2012 by NarcolepticBuddha because: (no reason given)
edit on 27-8-2012 by NarcolepticBuddha because: (no reason