poetry critical

online poetry workshop

Current Stats
  • poems: 47,436 (7,952 active)
  • comments: 315,311
  • ratings: 115,165
  • average rating: 7.5
  • forum posts: 251,126
  • users: 10,299 (115 active)
  • current users: 0


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:

Birth To Burial And The Screaming In Between

A baby born,
the screaming starts-
a mother's scorn
regret, we met at an accident of life
with neither the option
to choose the other.
We were stuck- and not to be subdued...
the screaming continued.
I was sure I hated her,
like some might hate their ruler-
because he hated her,
and for that- she, him.
Thus she hated me and not that
I drew allegiance to my "swim coach",
but because she couldn't look at me
without seeing him too...
the screaming grew.
Now shrinks color me pictures
to explain the way I am-
You're sexist, chauvinist, pessimist
and every other 'ist' to be fathomed,
when really, technically- I'm pissed.
I'm an erasable mistake,
a blemish that could have ended up a stain
on my mother's black mini-skirt thirty years ago...
the screaming echoes.
And then there's white hospital walls,
like blank slates, cubicles of death-
my namesake now a heavy-breathing waterfall
and I myself, no different.
I wait for her to wake and when she does
all the pain of her life,
like a thousand homing knives
shooting through her soul at once,
and she howls through the ceiling...
I miss the screaming.

(comment on this poem)