Best Critic Poems
The Poetry Critic
We have ourselves a critic on poem of the day
Like being a good parent, it’s not quite his forte
I think what we’re seeing is a little Vulcan blood
His words are illogical and they drag through the mud
Some call him a king as they walk hand in hand
They should start reading the lyrics of his little boy band
He preaches forgiveness but falls a bit short
All I keep hearing is his cutting retort
Roger Ebert~ "At The Movies"
Chicago Film Critic: Pulitzer Prize winner for Criticism.
Has a star in his name, at the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Passed away in 2013 A.D.
~~A Dedication to Roger Ebert~~
Ah, dear Roger! Gone but not forgotten.
Infinitely compassionate, warm and fun!
With you, and many Chicago journalists,
I was so very blessed to run.
You never were too big to come to my
humble home parties!
You brought your journalist friends, too.
When my daughter was just two, she
joyfully opened our front door for you.
Each New Years Eve, you rented a space
for your hundreds of friends,
With drink, food and overflowing
laughter.
Those days, Roger, I will remember and
cherish, today and forever after.
I daringly argued with you about your movie
critiques!
And yet...you were open to hearing the
ramblings from my mouth.
Till a deathly illness, took you painfully out!
But, of your endless virtues and genuine
humanity and creativity,
Of these, dearest Roger, I will eternally shout!
Love,
Panagiota
Panagiota Romios
4/1/2019
My brother, one year younger
and an athlete of some note,
once found my private notebook,
seeing poetry I wrote.
Before that day I fancied that
my writing held some unction;
I worked to craft each poem so
to serve a noble function.
I'd rather hoped each one would stir
its reader's soul profoundly,
but brother claims their value lies
in helping souls sleep soundly.
written 5 Feb 2023
Did you know....
about the look in my eyes?
The ongoing fatigue....
The fact that I sleep more....
the fact that I distance myself....
away from you?
Don't you see,
what you've done to me?
You've taken a loving man,
and you've destroyed his self-esteem....
You've been on him so much,
until now he's become numb to your words.
From sun up to sun down,
it's nothing but words of harm,
it's always about what you want,
you're expectations,
and how you want me to be....
you want me to be like you.
You've been torn apart by your past,
so much to the point where all you know,
is to charge at me....
making me feel less of a man.
Well....
your days of devaluing me are coming to an end....
you're mad because I refuse to bend....
or break....
You're nothing but a critic,
the biggest one I've ever known,
I'm fed up with your constant criticizing,
so please just leave me alone....
my world is all messed up,
I can't think straight half the time,
because I am constantly in your crosshairs....
and it isn't fair....
I've always been there,
to love and support....
You were my everything,
then you started to pick at me....
and now I want nothing more to do,
than remove myself....
away from you....
You are nothing but a critic....
picking and picking at me....
it's so sickening....
it's angering....
it's making my stomach turn....
So I will take our memories
and watch them all burn....
I'll leave you right where you are....
I can't go on like this....
I refuse to be devalued....
By a critic....
You're just a critic....
Picking at me,
making me feel bad....
always on my back,
and you wonder why I get so mad....
You're just a critic....
You're just a critic....
What nasty grip and vicious hold
A voice that cuts and scars my soul
Ever constant, reproach and scold
Death of confidence is its goal.
"Note your life is remote and dull
Failures pursue the likes of you
Your place in life shall equal null
You’ll only reap, what you are due."
Each word that’s spoke does enter deep
For it discerns me like myself
Negative airs it piles in heaps
Yet companions can’t see its stealth
Be gone that voice that lives on fear
Black echoes have endured their time
Encourage, nurture, push and steer
Create ladders, not slides to climb.
Our world has those that cast their stones
Permit this man his peace of mind
Embolden trust in dulcet tones
Critics and prey live intertwined.
One Sunday morning, I went home to visit mom and dad.
My brother was also there, and I showed them what I had.
The first thing I said to father as soon as I saw him,
was that I had four free tickets to the art museum.
His first verbal reaction was the old thing “I don’t know.”
He then said, “Ah, what the hell! Alright, I think I will go.”
Getting the old man in the place proved to be a tough sale.
The one thing he seemed interested in was a female.
This young attractive blonde woman was someone father eyed.
We discovered shortly that this cute thing was our tour guide.
The old man showed displeasure after passing through the door.
He displayed constant disapproval while he walked the floor.
Dad would make deprecating comments of all he observed.
Witnessing this, the tour guide seemed to be quite perturbed.
As everyone was led down the abstract art corridor,
my dear dad spewed out obnoxious comments a little more.
He made remarks about a work by Pablo Picasso.
This resulted in an embarrassing scenario.
He then emitted some words that sounded quite imprudent:
“Might this be a painting rendered by a preschool student?”
While standing and observing at a Jackson Pollock work
My old man displayed another example of a quirk.
He was heard to ask with loud interrogative candor:
“Is this from an accident at a Sherwin-Williams store? “
His next words transpired into negative vicissitudes:
“Tell me, where do you display all of your paintings of nudes?
The tour guide appeared to have had enough of my old man.
After all, she took more than the average person can.
Immediately following my father’s last retort,
the tour guide announced she would cut the exhibition short.
She told me, “Please take him out of here as soon as you can!
I really feel sorry for you if he is your old man!
If you ever want to avoid some abasement and shame,
any Sunday afternoon, take him to see a ballgame.”
A balancing act
Critique with no disrespect
Too easy to fall
The Critic - Art and Poetry
- by Bob Atkinson
'tis always easier to criticize
than is to do it yourself
although in truth the latter
contains far more fun and mirth
my point lies somewhere in between
good and bad of poetry
adjustment for the mainstream
how we absorb idealistic dreams
to see this in a different light
with crystal covers on the lens
we can, with open eyes
love writers with sharp pens
those who look beyond the fluff
and understand good meaning
divest themselves of constraints
and pursue a different dreaming
they see a world with tearfulness
not holding on to chains
which produce establishments
that grate and agitate
my desire in this arena
carries to all a simple message
don't let the future be determined
by past usage and direction
what you see is fabricated
a reality far from real
poo pooing things that matter
holds their only zeal
me, I've grown accustomed
to my meaning zipping by
heads of those who look
only at the surface side
doesn't mean I'm disheartened
to try is not hard at all
when you feel compunction
to rearrange it all
(And other steam of consciousness writers)
Trying to read this BBbbbllllizzard of words on the page
of this damned author who posed as sage
Who mystifies the simplest songs
and amorphousises way to long
for the rational mind to make a
connection with the gist
the pace the race
the common place.
The form so deformed as to be un analyzable
to be un surmisable
even for the daft.
The contrite are right
when they refuse to take a bite
in fright for to read such a Bliizardddddddd
of words on the page
does nothing but
put one
in a
daze.
Why do moms change, when girls grow up?
New set of rules!
Never ending do’s and don’ts!
Teaching, preaching, gazing,
Its damn irritating!
But let me tell you, dude!
If you really know your mom,
You will surely find her super cute!!
Sharing with you, a funny docket.
Surprisingly, found it in my pocket!
Huh…..Lol! How high, she thinks of me!
She’s looking for my perfect soul!
Is that an order for me or my indirect extol?
Will read it out for you.
Let me too get the right cue!
Promise me! You won’t roll in the aisles!
Hey! Come on now, stop that smile!
Ohooooo! Now, this is to prevent me from infatuations!
She is just toooo prepared for such situations!
What a cute comedy!
She needs a whizzkid, a prodigy.
He should be a xue Ba.
Besides being naughty and sporty.
Blessed with high IQ and EQ.
His eyes should be blue, in fact green would do.
Height shall not be less than six point two.
Fair! Umm rather peaches-and-cream complexion.
A brawny and willowy,
Not a bad connexion!
She needs a perfect charming statuesque.
Ah! What a critique!
She has fixed such standards,
Signifies how much I am being pampered!
Such moments are delightful treasure!
Love me Mom, like this forever!
Indubitably, you're a writer like me
But your world is drenched in apathy
You're plodding through with lethargy
To write words so unclear.
Introvert, you're unrehearsed
Yet so well versed
In lines that hurt
And tear apart the things that I hold dear.
My love for you
It still holds true
You're begging me to notice you
But I sense that you're a person of regret.
In stanzas and soliloquy
The daggers you choose carefully
Are aimed to say
"I'll criticize you yet".
There once was an old lady from Maine.
Born in Virgo, a critic, quite plain,
her zest for punctuation
caused poetic frustration,
but they cared for her all of the same.
While writing one day this fine teacher
met her match a right handsome preacher
he dissected her acts
found her lacking in tact
and schooled her behind the wood bleacher!
I’m leader of a Bluegrass Band
A tough critic watches each show
She’s always out there listening
Hears goofs that others never know
No reviews in the Newspaper
But after the show, when I’m home
My wife always gives her review
Caught it all, like a fine tooth comb
She’s heard all of the songs practiced
And knows how they sound when they’re right
She’s heard the harmony singing
Can tell when the harmony’s tight
But as M C, I do ad Lib
My Critic never has a clue
The few jokes I tell on the stage
She’s never heard, they’re always new
I
Do you connect with struggling writers
Would you know it
Harry the Weaver, poet
Graces communities, fraternities,
(Sororities, too?)
II
To have someone read your scraps of work
Going back as far as is feasible
prince HH reads closely, generously
With the gentleness of weavers,
Care, calmness, goodness - fruit of the Spirit
Makes it tolerable to wait to be heard
Pleasure to be respectfully read
To be free to write FREELY, profusely
Out of the darkness
arises color burst
Van Gogh starry night sky style
The blues disappear in light burst
on my night sky
Resurrect your kind heart
from the pettiness of discontent
Your lack of talent at an old age
cripples your dry shriveled bean of a heart.
Lub-dub! Lub-dub! Lub-dub!? How many ticks
before the end?