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:

Poem: [I used to go to bars...]

I used to go to bars where I knew you would be
Even though we had never spoken, and knew we never would.
You were habitual like all people are I suppose,
Sitting at the same table, drinking the same drink,
And smoking cigarettes sporadically
The ashes piling up faster than the glasses, your ashtray
Resembling a crematorium for vices.
I knew a conversation in close context would reveal
A combination of smoke and vodka on your breath
All my senses taking in your revelations.  
The way your lips formed to make the words
The gentle contact of your tongue inside your mouth
Providing enunciation, and a softness I was begging for.
The feel of your hand on my leg, my arm slinking around you
To draw you in closer still, my stomach fluttering, nervous.
The taste of your mouth, the presentation of your habits,
Thick and holding steady on my palette.
Sitting from afar I used to imagine all of these things
And how smoking used to disgust me, but now,
Smoke billowing from your mouth
I am hypnotized at the ghost shapes leaking towards the ceiling.  
To my drunken, half closed eyes and aching heart
Alone at the far side of this dark saloon they become smoke signals
Only I can read, your tongue twisting to send me sweet nothings
Holding them in my mind long after they have seeped into
The tiles on the ceiling, composing hieroglyphs of our secret love
For scientists to study in the years to come.

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