Post your Poems and Get Reviews!

This might sound a bit strange and this thread might die very quickly as most of my threads do but I am currently in the mood to rate/judge/review poems submitted in this category by all the poets of litnet. Although my reviews might be too self biased to be considered beneficial it can help me to become a better writer/reviewer. And it wouldn't hurt anybody else to get your poetry some attention right!? More than half the poems in this category are recieved with zero replies and I would like to see if I can make just a small difference in this even if it isn't significant and this topic falls onto page 10 in a few days after recieving 400 hits and not one reply.

That's perfectly fine with me! If you post a poem in this thread... it will be reviewed whether you like it or not :D! Heck, if you post anything in this thread I'll reply.

So come post your poetry and get some reviews!

I'll post some of my own poems and review them myself if I haveto in order to keep this topic alive :D. (Yeah, I know it sounds pathetic but you'd be surprised how dogged I am at times) Have a great day everyone.

Here's something I started but pretty much lost interest in when I realized it wasn't going anywhere. Comments would be appreciated, to see if it might be salvaged.


In sunshine swells of imagination
curtains transfigure their pattern
on crumbling walls, the suffusion
of a dream.
Captured filaments sparkle by
rays of an opulent priority,
the scene grows heavy with luster.
Each wall sags in opalescence,
ruffled light seeps through draped wings
masking the room in pigment,
grey turns to a chromatic gloss,
points of light linger their dazzled
diligence in shimmering waves.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Il Penseroso

Here's something I started but pretty much lost interest in when I realized it wasn't going anywhere. Comments would be appreciated, to see if it might be salvaged.

---

It's going, Il Penseroso. I think you're at the point where reality ceases and imagination is given existence. Really...it's up to you whether you want to crossover and fully immerse yourself in this world of Imagination.

i'll give you three to comment on adolescent 09, anybody else can reply if they want,

The Living Ghost

All alone in a crowded room,
Isolated by all
Accepting his doom
Multiple acquaintances, short and tall
Look through him like at a ghost
Look through him at the wall
Invisible in everyday apparel

Refrain

And every Friday night,
He dresses black with a mask of night
And as his gloved fingers dance
Over guitar strings
His sounds piercing like a lance
He screams his hate and rage
Through the speakers to the cheering throng
And now he realizes
He is still not seen

During the intermission
He undergoes fission
The lead singer stays in back,
While the person behind the mask
Goes about a personal task
Slipping silently through the crowd
He knew he still had his invisibility shroud

Refrain

And every Friday night,
He dresses black with a mask of night
And as his gloved fingers dance
Over guitar strings
His sounds piercing like a lance
He screams his hate and rage
Through the speakers to the cheering throng
And now he realizes
He is still not seen

He dons his face for the last time,
Hiding his mask under it
Upon leaving the stage his body collapses
With a flutter of falling clothing
His face and gloves fall away
Revealing nothing
Nothing to cast the slightest shadow


The Unbridled Flood of Power
I want strength
I want fire to blossom in my hand
I want power
To turn my enemies to sand
I want ferocity
To instill fear, in those so weak to cause fear in me
I want invincibility
To bring out the best in me
I want knowledge
To keep many forces at bay
I want stealth
To assassinate my foes while they’re unwittingly
Playing into my hand


Because I am bound by unseen chains,
twisting and tightening their grip around me
they all seek to control me,
why is their beast of burden me?
All I know right now is,
They fear me,
with all sincerity
they hate me
they hate me
and they want me to die
but let me tell you what
I’m am up here standing on this stage,
Tearing apart these chains with my strength
Burning them with my power
Drowning them as the tidal waters flow
With my phrases and metaphors so
Suffocating them in their own literal inadequacy
Speedily releasing my power into them
that they might know how dangerous my weapons of war have become,
burying them under any sort of literature possible.
Undying,
Much knowing,
Forcing them forward their fear showing,
Because there is a monster inside me,
he is hibernating,
waiting
watching as I grow
that one day my words will throw
the world into a state of passion
like a classical song
rising,
thrashing,
pulling those from their seats that may be able to see colors unseen
think in thoughts flowing through time that are too complex to be thought
speak in tongues undying, yet still gone
hear more than music,
apply their full energy potential into that one part
just before the crescendo
when feelings run strong,
swords, guns, and stones lie useless
as the roaring tumult of undying power washes over them
as if they would use all of their last energy to show what they hear
to let the world feel their undaunted power
so that the world will want what it cannot have
to put everything they own into that last crescendo
to hear
to see
to feel the music


Like an eagle in the sky,
I will fly above the rain,
I will fly to you so high,
Though resisted by my chains.

You my father and my king
You my brother all the same,
You released me now I’ll bring,
Light brought by my fire and flame.

To the owl goes the night,
Royal swans, the lakeshore buy,
Eagle, woodland, his noble right,
For my realm, I choose the sky.

I give life through my great light,
And I cause little one’s fun,
At each day and after night,
I assure, I am the sun

I

the neighborhood children, through knitted paws
squeal, shriek, and scream their playful calls
as their voluminous silhouettes cascade upon
the ivy-covered, fissure-riddled walls

icy fingers, concealing eyes of a mind
that ponders peeking, but then decides
against when visions of gifts under tree
present the pleasant memories of sweet surprise

cleverly hidden beneath an old canoe
an older boy has tips on girls for sale
despite the dusk and cold cheeks flushed
the younger cannot keep concealed a blush

wet, rhythmic smacks of shoes on grass
the dry, quick breaths of the pursued
"tag, you're it" a muffled giggle, the snap of a stick
such are the sounds of youth on the move

II

brusque flashes from a television screen
irradiate a couched woman under heavy shawl
while mute upon the floor with a sportive magazine
lays a remote man in lackadaisical sprawl

wet lips hover over another, frozen for a moment
as the thoughts of family linger then leave
with but a quiver of atonement
before they rejoin and passionately weave

cloaked in the shadows of a thick fir tree
a husband with secret cigarette inhales
despite his wife and doctor's desperate pleas
his attempts at quitting have always failed

weak, defeated looks at all the promise now passed
exhausted sighs from the broken and bruised
"i'm tired of your sh*t" a frightened cry, a slap so quick
such are the sounds of an age unmoved

OK, 'Dole. Have at it!

Sacrifice #2

The flames lick their lips
as they sample the sacrifice.
A frightened stream of blood
vainly tries to escape,
but the fire has a thirst that cannot be quenched,
so a long, dripping tongue of flame extends
to greedily lap up each drop of crimson moisture.
Finding the repast to their taste,
the scarlet diners toast each other with sparks,
and toss scraps to the coals.
When dinner is finished,
the flames put on small blue jackets,
toss their yellow hair in appreciation,
and gather their cloaks of vapor about them.
It’s time to say goodnight.
A single glowing shadow remains at the table.
The others gone,
Fear remains to get his meager meal
from the small scraps that remain.
It’s not much,
but it will suffice to keep his own thin flame alight.
He raises sparks in toast,
then, even he, takes his leave.

*Raven Darkendale

© 2/27/98

*Yet another Pen Name

Quote:

---

In sunshine swells of imagination
curtains transfigure their pattern
on crumbling walls, the suffusion
of a dream.
Captured filaments sparkle by
rays of an opulent priority,
the scene grows heavy with luster.
Each wall sags in opalescence,
ruffled light seeps through draped wings
masking the room in pigment,
grey turns to a chromatic gloss,
points of light linger their dazzled
diligence in shimmering waves.

---

I think it sounds beautiful besides the lengthy clumsiness of the word 'opalescence'. I discover a certain stiltedness from
'Captured' to 'luster' but I can't pinpoint exactly where. I love the
abstract ending from 'grey' to 'waves' and the way in which you
are able to manipulate the dull to resplendant atmosphere through
appealing descriptions of light.

Quote:

---

The Living Ghost
All alone in a crowded room,
Isolated by all
Accepting his doom
Multiple acquaintances, short and tall
Look through him like at a ghost
Look through him at the wall
Invisible in everyday apparel

---

I am intrigued by this adequate introduction to the first part of an ethereal creature who is to be embellished on in the following stanzas. Although your starting lines flow well and a reader may be treated to an appealing, distorted visual sketch of your character I can't help but to think you could put the word 'ghost' into more metaphorical terms. Instead of 'ghost' you could use other phrases which would idyllically suffice like maybe.. 'look at him like at a wisp' or 'look through him like at a vacant plaque'... something like that.

here is a poem, although i think you are a little bit swamped so it may take you a while to post on this poem...

Echo of the Sun

Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun
Blood red wine drips from the bottle, its twinkling like the stars as it shatters
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

Sad whispers of desperation, driving him mad, forcing his mad mind to run
Scuttling away from itself, swimming down to the crimson depths of the forgotten
Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun

Whose lost thoughts are these, the bright eyes and flashing smiles lost in oblivion
Whose fading laughter and sun streaked days of old are these, lost in the pain
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

The conscience awakens in the white sands, out of the bloody water, alive and unsung
The lighting strike eyes of self rebuke strike at the shadow he has hidden in, there he is
Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun

A cry of realization, revelatory thought strikes the darkness, and knocks down the gun
But it takes a hero to face down the past, and the courage was lost, the coward drinks
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

A simple sigh of tears washing down, sobs fill the alley, his moment of light is done
Memories softly whispering away like the smiles, like the smiles that fell on that day
Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

-Triskele-

Quote:

---

Refrain

And every Friday night,
He dresses black with a mask of night
And as his gloved fingers dance
Over guitar strings
His sounds piercing like a lance
He screams his hate and rage
Through the speakers to the cheering throng
And now he realizes
He is still not seen

During the intermission
He undergoes fission
The lead singer stays in back,
While the person behind the mask
Goes about a personal task
Slipping silently through the crowd
He knew he still had his invisibility shroud

---

This second part to your poem reminds me of T.S. Eliot but also of forced rhymes. I think the first stanza of this 'Refrain' part portrays the enigmatic side to your character. He is a singer/guitarist who compels a vivacious crowd with his superb melodies. I like the way you implemented 'and his gloved fingers dance' which sounds so much better than 'his gloved fingers strum' or 'his gloved fingers pluck'. You bring color to the first part of 'Refrain' with interesting word usage and a knack for making the reader actually want to know more about the surreptitious characteristics of your 'ghost'.

The second stanza of 'Refrain' reminds me of forced lines. Although this form of rhyming may be construed differently according to the diverse poetical appeals among readers, I believe forced rhyming restricts and conforms your poem's meaning. I think it's best to be less rhythmical and more critical about the development of your 'ghost’.

Quote:

---

Refrain

He dons his face for the last time,
Hiding his mask under it
Upon leaving the stage his body collapses
With a flutter of falling clothing
His face and gloves fall away
Revealing nothing
Nothing to cast the slightest shadow

---

Although I don't think the word 'dons' makes sense in your first line of the second part of your 'Refrain' poem I am quite content in the way your able to portray him falling away yet no one is there to give him a helping hand. The falling away of his cloth revealing nothingness shows his audience's ambivalence towards his physical being in a sense. They admire him for his music but don't respect him for much else. Well done :)

Quote:

---

The Unbridled Flood of Power
I want strength
I want fire to blossom in my hand
I want power
To turn my enemies to sand
I want ferocity
To instill fear, in those so weak to cause fear in me
I want invincibility
To bring out the best in me
I want knowledge
To keep many forces at bay
I want stealth
To assassinate my foes while they’re unwittingly
Playing into my hand

---

Ah! A new poem here... goodie goodie :D. The repetition of 'I wan't' and 'to [do something]' outlines an interesting determination to get what 'you want'. It shows slight superciliousness and blatant desire for provincial strength. Nice :).

Quote:

---

Because I am bound by unseen chains,
twisting and tightening their grip around me
they all seek to control me,
why is their beast of burden me?
All I know right now is,
They fear me,
with all sincerity
they hate me
they hate me
and they want me to die
but let me tell you what
I’m am up here standing on this stage,
Tearing apart these chains with my strength
Burning them with my power
Drowning them as the tidal waters flow
With my phrases and metaphors so
Suffocating them in their own literal inadequacy
Speedily releasing my power into them
that they might know how dangerous my weapons of war have become,
burying them under any sort of literature possible.
Undying,
Much knowing,
Forcing them forward their fear showing,
Because there is a monster inside me,
he is hibernating,
waiting
watching as I grow
that one day my words will throw
the world into a state of passion
like a classical song
rising,
thrashing,
pulling those from their seats that may be able to see colors unseen
think in thoughts flowing through time that are too complex to be thought
speak in tongues undying, yet still gone
hear more than music,
apply their full energy potential into that one part
just before the crescendo
when feelings run strong,
swords, guns, and stones lie useless
as the roaring tumult of undying power washes over them
as if they would use all of their last energy to show what they hear
to let the world feel their undaunted power
so that the world will want what it cannot have
to put everything they own into that last crescendo
to hear
to see
to feel the music

---

The lower middle to last part sounds very interesting and I personally think it's near your best. But I'm a little nettled with the first part. :p

'Why is their beast of burden me' doesn't make sense but that can easily be changed.. They fear you with sincerity.. then they hate you and you repeat it twice.. confuses the hell out of me! Lol.. What did you mean by this? They want you to die but you tell them this: ' I’m am up here standing on this stage'.. just change 'I'm' to 'I am'.

For the rest of this verse I believe you should make it generally more coherent and give the reader a better idea of what exactly these 'chains' or restrictions are, why these people 'hate' him and why the people who hate him are illiterate numbnuts.

Quote:

---

Like an eagle in the sky,
I will fly above the rain,
I will fly to you so high,
Though resisted by my chains.

You my father and my king
You my brother all the same,
You released me now I’ll bring,
Light brought by my fire and flame.

To the owl goes the night,
Royal swans, the lakeshore buy,
Eagle, woodland, his noble right,
For my realm, I choose the sky.

I give life through my great light,
And I cause little one’s fun,
At each day and after night,
I assure, I am the sun

---

Your two middle stanzas could be near flawless with a bit of brushing up but your poem appears to hang at the end. Perhaps you should add more to better resolve it?

Alright, I feel so vulnerable sharing. I just write things down for me so I probably should keep these things hidden. But I keep telling myself that none of you know who I am really. Then again, maybe you know me better than many of my friends because you’ve seen what I think.


The First Day of Preschool


We started with our normal routine
up at six, dressed and fed
At seven thirty we’re on our way.
But, today was different.
For four years you’ve been my daily companion.
You’ve helped me load the breakfast dishes and
found where I set down my coffee.
Together we’ve carried on with the matters of the day.
Alone, I cleaned up our breakfast and worked through the house.
When I made the bed I folded your Spider Man blanket.
Today, I will not read the story just one more time
and you will not nap next to me.
Today you grew up more than I am ready.
Now your world reaches beyond me.
You gained a life that I am not a part of
and had experiences that we do not share.
It is the first day of preschool.
I am lonely and ready for story time.

ok adol...i agree; I just posted a poem I wrote and nobody seemed to care...I'll post the first part...coz it's long and I don't want to overtax you!

Contemporary Dust

The soft claws of the ageing felines tread softly,
padding on chipped piano keys, churning up old dust,
slinking around marble vases of antique origins,
careful to evade the overflowing waste of drying flowers,
happy to reside within the shafts of yellowed life,
permeating through thin walls and sinking inside
the greying remains of former quilts now torn to shreds.


have at it- you're a great critic, you're ****ing honest and that's the best thing in a critic

Wow Adol,
Your quite the good person to want to comment on eveyone poems in your thread. Here is one I posted earlier but had no constructive critique (except Pen said he liked it). Motherhubbard and dyingflame are in line ahead of me.
Dyingflame, I like the quality of visual imagery of your piece. I've always liked Motherhubbards writings. They remind me of reading Erma Bombeck except there is sometimes a bit of a sad feel.

To Make a Poem

The poem understand is easy to make
Take you your heart which then you must break
A little sorrow then add and melancholy blue
I know it sounds silly but really it’s true
Once there has passed a right proper time
You sharpen your knife to begin in the rhyme
Slice the heart now in pieces so thin
Resemble they paper, That’s how you begin
Lay them out now and arrange them aright
(At times you must work this into the night)
Note on the edges some bleeding there be
It’s ink of the poem and the part of me
That flows from the hand thru the plume to the page
A poet I say and never a sage
The funny thing is the heart’s never used up
It flows from the hand and again filled in the cup
A Romantic is messy and bleeds rather well
When images of life on the pages he’ll tell
Yes the making of rhymes, is easy you see
It’s the living of life that’s the hardest for me