poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Current Stats
  • poems: 45,788 (7,572 active)
  • comments: 307,312
  • ratings: 112,002
  • average rating: 7.5
  • forum posts: 247,103
  • users: 9,997 (124 active)
  • current users: 0

Welcome!

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:

Broadcast on the Home Service
matrinh20

“Malin head, twenty seven miles
 1
one thousand and four, rising slowly.”
 2
The primly erotic and entrancing voice
 3
that may well be Celia Johnson
 4
or Jean Simmons, informs us.
 5
Evoking the aroma of Chanel number 5
 6
and of leather, horses, and the warm musky tang
 7
of female pheromones.
 8
I imagine her dressed in a light summer skirt
 9
of crisp cotton in a floral print
 10
and clean white underwear,
 11
glimpsed, as she crosses her legs
 12
with thighs to die for.
 13
For this beautiful clarion of clarity;
 14
This angelic vessel of extra sensual tone,
 15
is beautiful.
 16
the aesthetics are audible;
 17
the visual images are stimulated
 18
by their unseen associations.
 19
 
 
Meanwhile, in Mogadishu or Khartoum,
 20
at the aftermath of another Allah Akbar attack,
 21
the sunlight highlights
 22
the fresh slick innards,
 23
and scattered body parts,
 24
As vivid red splashes
 25
on a grey-white background
 26
drying out on a dusty road.
 27
So far away from the world
 28
where we are free to be disappointed.
 29
 
 
Our foreign correspondent,
 30
(a pale and frail Oxbridge),  
 31
flinches nervously
 32
as a mortar shell explodes nearby,
 33
and then apologises,
 34
as only an Englishman can,
 35
for the background noise
 36
of shouts, sirens, and small arms fire.
 37
Just like last week, and last year
 38
in Palestine, and Helmand province.
 39
 
 
Here at home, in the mother land,
 40
(a province in the North Atlantic
 41
metaphorically adrift between
 42
the Old and The New World),
 43
our colonial brood, has long since left home.
 44
Although still staying in touch
 45
as a commonwealth of strained friendship.
 46
We are now like a lover
 47
with a harem of ex-girlfriends.
 48
Reminiscing on what used to be
 49
whilst degenerating into a state
 50
of third worldliness.
 51
 
 
The thoroughbred’s slow decline is marked
 52
In frayed cuffs and genteel shabbiness.
 53
Discouraged from patriotism
 54
lest we should offend others
 55
Who are not great.
 56
Still we comply with those old traditions
 57
of the premier division.
 58
Standards are maintained
 59
and dignity upheld
 60
within the tight boundaries
 61
of fiscal restraint.
 62
Even as we slip ever downwards
 63
towards the conference league.
 64
For are we not Britons,
 65
like last week and last year?
 66
 
 
For brighter shades
 67
glow lighter now
 68
like lilac buds
 69
on purple bough.
 70
The greener grass
 71
after the rain
 72
was greener still
 73
to Tamburlaine.
 74
Through an unsettled outlook
 75
with a depression and storms to follow.
 76
Like Serengeti light vessel automatic
 77
west veering south west
 78
six or seven
 79
says the BBC girl,
 80
who sounds just like Celia Johnson.
 81

(comment on this poem)


0.272s