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!

Random Poem:

"Porty Crystal", the Mistress from "Kampuchea"

Khmer – witness of
her first (in)articulation.
Cardamom and Elephant(s) – crib
of the descendant…Porty Crystal.
Beauty’s here, finally…
A fragile creation.
But at nine, she’s only seven.
At eighteen, she’s still sixteen.
Her senses, seven - though never exact  
were perfectly sculpted
by fifty hands and others unknown
to be away from Hue…yes, from You.
Her domain’s one
of those offering gold
for less than a penny (royal tea?)  : )
but greater than any.  
A veil of no form nor color
She wove for years without rest
her be(a)st - the only piece she had
but had never used.
A runaway (was) “made-then”
hungry for words -
words buried with a million and a half (at least)
with “jean(s)-no-side”
Hue…yes, You
used to hurdle horizons
both vertical and  (what’s the other one?)
Only to have the lady I call myself.
But soon their tips became loud
spoken English and French
even Chinese (to some extent)…
were noise to me, but a hymn to Hue.
And failure was too cowardly
pushing its rival upfront.
With quite a few attempts
Hue is out to find her – his mistress.
While Hue calls it a struggle (not with, but for her)
A continuous one
His “axe-scent” lost its charm
Finding her on a greener utopia.
Enjoying no USe of language not native
Paul – or “Pol” to many – offered her a Pot of gold
On Rouge carpet welcoming
The two-time mistress with “them (-who-cry-see)”.
A mistress to Hue once
a mistress to Paul in ’75.
But twenty-four hours was enough for the latter
To create a two-Ton(le) flood(ed) for Thom and Sap.
As movements slowed down
from 4:00am until 10:00pm
Porty desires no more of any organ
that composes infamous literatures.
When all else was exhausted,
again, a runaway (was) “made-then”.
As she ignores the “Marx(ism)” of his fists
His "poet-rate" splits her thoughts to hundreds.
On her prolix journey, halfway through
every 10th hour was an hour for rest.
Her feet were dragged towards the north and west
to find refuge on the soils she calls “Thy-land”.
With time passing unnoticed
natural“Vietnam-ins” nourished her again
Wiped the dirt off, then-unused veil
now used in Paris in ’89.
Porty Crystal…a mistress no more
her strength is “Ankored” yet not
on her own (A)oral finesse
but still on tongues of languages not hers.
Her voice, ushered by Southwest monsoon,
made Hue vanish leaving scribbled cries
and caught Paul unarmed for  (heart) attack,.
Now she can entice more…13,995,904 is her target.

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