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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:
|The Beauty of the Rose|
One May day, whilst whacking weeds, a small spiny hump became uncovered for me. This twisted mere lump of a brown bony stump had been apparently drowned under thistle and down of a grassy, ground-covering sea.
Now genuflect, I set to inspect the gnarl-knuckled relic-- an artifact, no doubt, buckled from the weight of a long ago drought. It had once been hale, as attested by the congested clutch of spike-brandishing talons seemingly clawing their way from a green-tangled grave.
But look! Here's a brave, dark hook of a leaf, with a stature so brief to be dwarfed by my finger; yet here it is, lingering, tenuously attached to this bristling thatch of death. The jagged little spearhead, edged- and veined red, was defiantly standing amongst the bones of its ancestors demanding its former glory be regrown.
Here was the heir to the garden's thorny throne!
Every day I went, with knee bent, and watering can in hand to tend the fledgling need of this sapling which I'd freed. Soon a shoot, and soon a sprout, and growing longer, even stronger nettled limbs were stretching out.
Then, in late June, when doing my duty I saw the first sign of its burgeoning beauty: a tiny bud, a miniature stud jutting small from a brambly branch. Anon another, and next a cluster all mustering to kiss the world with their pink little lips.
Later still, the prickly will of this blossoming shrub came to rub July the right way. My fealty, loyalty, to this yet-petite royalty awarded the dense-veneered crowns on display; full-flowered and flush with the verve that had hidden in the earth, beneath the decay.
When the bush longs for rain, its pretty petals will wilt, and drop to the sod to be trod underboot. But this is not its doom, for the beauty of the rose lies deep in its root, nowhere near the bloom.
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