poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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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:

without being
gjenkins

in my coffin—I did quite well, a long
 1
curtain over head, burgundy, hung from the
 2
ceiling to the floor, bright colors surrounded me
 3
blue, red, pink, white flowers everywhere
 4
 
 
death isn’t bad, I think, it hangs like mistletoe
 5
waiting  for its kiss. waiting for your arms
 6
and legs, it’s like hungry children waiting to
 7
be fed; like the smell of wet cement and
 8
rain
 9
 
 
my friends and family stood over the
 10
coffin, some smiling, others shake their
 11
heads in discontent, others can’t wait to
 12
leave so they can get back to their own destructions,
 13
their car smoked air, their cabinet whiskey
 14
and beer
 15
 
 
I like it here (smiling) ( I could really use a drink, I
 16
can really use a drink)
 17
“kiss him baby—“ “no, mama I don’t want to
 18
kiss him, he’s ugly” (smart girl)
 19
“he’s your uncle, kiss him”
 20
“no”
 21
 
 
death isn’t so bad, it’s like
 22
practicing the clarinet
 23
or cheating on your taxes,
 24
practice practice practice,
 25
like fucking beauty as it inhales and
 26
exhales and the moon pulls back, without
 27
promise of illumination
 28
 
 
I push past the coffin, I push past the soggy
 29
dirt and worms, children are playing above
 30
me, I raise above the October grass and
 31
my twisted being can sense sunlight and
 32
children playing and some people going
 33
back to their cars. now I am here without
 34
love or color. there is flat space as far as I
 35
can imagine, there’s one huge tree to the north
 36
huge and awkward, it shadows dozens of graves.
 37
about 200 yards to the south,
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a small office with signs hanging on the side:
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men and women toilets,
 40
 
 
and beyond that two canopies, untied, flapping,
 41
popping in the wind. the cars are lined up
 42
on the road, the sun shines down on what
 43
I can only describe as my face, the light
 44
seems to balance time, I remember an old
 45
nursery rhyme my mother would sing to
 46
me, All fly away
 47
 
 
the cars leave one by one
 48
they try to get the mud off the
 49
shoes the best they can,
 50
they try to make it home
 51
without any expectancy of
 52
today or tomorrow or
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coming back to this place until
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it’s time
 55

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