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!

Random Poem:

My Sweet Georgia Home
azalea

I’ve never been to Georgia, but
 1
I know. I know all about
 2
The terra cotta roads that paint bare feet
 3
With scarlet earth; the wildflowers that carpet
 4
Flourishing hills and scrape the skin on
 5
Sunburned legs.
 6
 
 
And I know of the scorching sun
 7
That browns hardworking shoulders;
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The canopies of blossoming trees
 9
That shade narrow country paths. And
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The dogwood and azaleas that dance in
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Soft breezes.
 12
 
 
And the small clustered towns
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That make their own red bricks,
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Quarrying tons of granite
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From deep ravined pits.
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Where every face is a friendly face, and
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Keys are seldom used.
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And I know of the charming bits of history that
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Hide behind ancient walls; the antique
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Stories, houses, memoirs,
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That are waiting to be discovered. The precious
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fragments of olden days that accumulate
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and secrete.
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And behind a picket fence
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I can see Doris, in a sapphire dress
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Strolling across a hill of daisies, her hair short and golden,
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Humming a tune that mother always sang;
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Cousin Joyce tags along behind her, in a yellow sun bonnet
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Picking luscious, plump peaches.
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And I see Cleo, in the sunlit kitchen
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Making strawberry jam and peach marmalade;
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A pecan pie in the oven sends tilliating smells
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Lingering in the delicious air.
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Outside, little Buddy jokes with Phil
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And together they laugh until sunset.
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And I know of the small cottage that rests
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Upon acres of rolling crimson land;
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The photographs framed by windowpanes
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Of a setting Georgia sun that spills
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prismatic colors across cherished soil. And
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the carefree people that reside in their precious land.
 42
 
 
And when I finally visit Georgia,
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Time has grayed heads and wrinkled faces;
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The young children I know now have grandkids of their own.
 45
But the land still thrives with splendor and pride,
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And shines with the same beauty that it always has
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In my grandmother’s stories of the south.
 48

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