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:

God, the Window, and Me

I met God one morning-
it was a Sunday
this suited him well
being it was his day of rest
(will I rest?)
he arrived at the time
(it's a daily ritual)
when I peel my face back
gouge my eyes with forks
and I let my fingers whisper across
my cheeks
beauty is just such a trivial thing
(don't need it)
(don't need it)
(discard it. discard it.)
(I’m a card, will you deal me? will you play me?)
I do this every
God was on one side
I was on the other
I thought he would be fat
or something
so I offered him a light
                                        (do it kindly! do it kindly! you're a fucking poet, do this gracefully)
and he declined
I should have telephone
(it's on the wall, it's yellow, and it’s ringing)
to talk to God
because there's just a window
and me
You see,
I'm like convict
(chained, the orange jump suit)
(and I practice astral projection at night)
talking to the deaf mother
while she brings him
a razor filled, chocolate cake
But here no one visits
(there’s no one, grass talks, and birds grow)
and I met God
this Sunday morning
while I was doing the laundry
(I sort by lights and darks, like the rest of us always do)
I thought I should ask him some poignant question
(like when will I live? When will I die? Where do the Jews go?)
He had no answers
“I’m only God…”
(that was what he said)
And then he left that Sunday morning
with me breathing against the window
(Breathe; I must remember how to breathe)
that Sunday morning when there was
just God,
the window,
and me

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