poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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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:

without being

in my coffin—I did quite well, a long
curtain over head, burgundy, hung from the
ceiling to the floor, bright colors surrounded me
blue, red, pink, white flowers everywhere
death isn’t bad, I think, it hangs like mistletoe
waiting  for its kiss. waiting for your arms
and legs, it’s like hungry children waiting to
be fed; like the smell of wet cement and
my friends and family stood over the
coffin, some smiling, others shake their
heads in discontent, others can’t wait to
leave so they can get back to their own destructions,
their car smoked air, their cabinet whiskey
and beer
I like it here (smiling) ( I could really use a drink, I
can really use a drink)
“kiss him baby—“ “no, mama I don’t want to
kiss him, he’s ugly” (smart girl)
“he’s your uncle, kiss him”
death isn’t so bad, it’s like
practicing the clarinet
or cheating on your taxes,
practice practice practice,
like fucking beauty as it inhales and
exhales and the moon pulls back, without
promise of illumination
I push past the coffin, I push past the soggy
dirt and worms, children are playing above
me, I raise above the October grass and
my twisted being can sense sunlight and
children playing and some people going
back to their cars. now I am here without
love or color. there is flat space as far as I
can imagine, there’s one huge tree to the north
huge and awkward, it shadows dozens of graves.
about 200 yards to the south,
a small office with signs hanging on the side:
men and women toilets,
and beyond that two canopies, untied, flapping,
popping in the wind. the cars are lined up
on the road, the sun shines down on what
I can only describe as my face, the light
seems to balance time, I remember an old
nursery rhyme my mother would sing to
me, All fly away
the cars leave one by one
they try to get the mud off the
shoes the best they can,
they try to make it home
without any expectancy of
today or tomorrow or
coming back to this place until
it’s time

(comment on this poem)