Best Critics Poems
Critics
Wrote a poem in the sand,
Wonder how it fares if left alone,
Will it bear on its own merits
Or juxtapose by meddling hands,
Meantime, sun-dries it again,
Wind shifts it broad and thin,
Indelible puddles left by rain,
Sand critters pop out and in,
A boy and his ball rolls along,
With a long sigh, looks on down,
Builds a sandcastle then leaves,
Ebbtide gone, flood tide flows cleanly,
I returned, stood and discern,
Comme ci, comme ca, c'est la vie.
14th line English translated from French, "Like this, like that, that is life."
05/09/2019
*POTD*
~~Team PoetrySoup
*6th Place*
old poems, FREE VERSE (003)
~~Poet Destroyer A
Wipe that silly grin from your face, boy
I am a woman, but certainly not a wimp
Watch me roll with the punches, tough guy
It'll take more than your words my style to crimp
Hey, babe, your style really sucks
Call that art, I have seen kids write better
Have some heart, instill it in your writes
Feel the moment, feel those letters
My feelings are there, you just may not relate
If you can't grasp my intent, too bad for you
I write from my heart, not from a man's head
I know what I'm saying, you just haven't a clue
Oh, i see you have posted another piece
Let me read and determine my thoughts
Excellent shape and so true to form
This definitely has plusses, you must be man taught
Hold on, joker, no man has influenced me
Dickinson and Teasdale are among the finest
Your thoughts on my work I'll disregard
Your views on poetry reveal your blindness
The last write you wrote, has invited my see
It has clearly shown, your writing to be
Scope, shape and the form you have written
I have scrolled to your past, and I am sorrowful smitten
No more condescending from ye on the throne?
What was it that made you feel superior?
And, furthermore, what gave you the right
To make any poet feel inferior?
Ears listening to only their lies,
And their lies speaking only to them,
Trying to be quiet yet still screaming,
Drowning in rants never heard,
So concise but not too clear,
Imprisoned in thoughts of obsession,
Muttering useless ancient literary rules,
In love with yet hating poetic expressions,
Foreign to their limited constrained imaginations,
Trapped behind walls of old thought,
Grasping yet never holding reality,
While visions of punctuation and conformity crowd their tiny unexpanded
minds,
Judging without thinking one step ahead,
Thinking thoughts that kill their judgement,
Still their bodies move forward to nowhere,
Their voices the only sound left to comfort them,
Unaware of love just beneath their windows,
Desolation blinds their desperate micro-management brains,
In pathetic awe of ancient written rules,
Never really meant for ones of their ilk,
For they were penned for poets of consciousness,
Aware their times and rules would surely end,
Were never truly meant for all the centuries,
Suffocating in the dust of a past they never lived,
Afraid of new ideas of written expression,
Created from the minds of what they fear most,
Free thinking writers unafraid of literary change,
And still,
They talk and talk and talk, saying absolutely nothing.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
There are always those who say that you are wrong.
They are the ones who never stray from the herd.
They go to school and learn everything about life from manuals.
They write poems and stories like other poets and writers did.
They get good grades.
They stay out of trouble, but engage in acceptable rowdiness and fun.
They write and give great graduation speeches.
They become middle-managers, mostly.
They fold their socks and underwear.
They stay abreast of the latest trends and movies.
They quote famous quotes like they thought them up.
They attempt to belittle, passive-aggressively, anything out of orthodox thought.
They live their lives like lambs.
They buy big, beautiful things.
They wear shiny wedding-rings.
They drive down drowsy streets.
They form committees.
They bake things shaped like commercials.
They invent rules for writing and art.
And
I
Don't
Follow
Them.
why is it I never in my life gave cadence as to critic another poets work
yet they find it perfectly acceptable to rate my own submissions
they aren't Jesus they don't walk on water so why should I bother with them
some are intellectualized wandering wizards others need attention like a baby
there I gave you your treat so wander back to your warm spot and shut your mouths
it doesn't help me when you crtic it just makes me think of what a perfect ass you are
going off someone cause of stupid grammattical errors we can't take it with us when we die
they themselves are mister perfect never doing anything wrong
see positive enforcement strengthens the heart where as negativity brings you down
plus who are they anyways:
Stay optimistic, even if you're
facing a set back. There are
many stages we go through in
our lives, but we manage, to get
back, on track. All good things
are possible, if you have
confidence in yourself and do as
much as you can. No one has
accomplished anything, in one day,
there has to be, a plan! Establishing
a routine, takes time, but it can lead
to many big opportunities, down the
road. At this point, you're bound to
find a way, to unburden, your heavy
load!
Let the good times outshine the bad times
Let the laughter drown out the tears
Let the light chase away the darkness including all your fears...
Turn your pain into strength and smile for you are alive, making all things possible but only possible if you try.
The critic is the frustrated wannabe who picks at others to compensate for his insecurities and to boost his delusions of grandeur. Most are moderately adequate poets at best and find it pleasurable to take it out on those who have some talent….Leave them on the “ignore” shelf.
I once knew a poet named Broken Wings,
And onto comments sweet and nice, she clings;
At times, some meanness visits,
She just laughs at those critics,
Because she wins, and her poetry sings !
_________________________
February 24, 2016
Limerick
For the contest, Sensitive Commenting,
sponsor, Skat
Fifth Place
Blow my own trumpet?
No. But when the baton’s out
the orchestra plays.
critics
shoot their arrows
pointed remarks puncture
self-confidence and instigate
anger
First a simple lunch –
soup, salad, rolls and dessert
(and wine if we choose).
Then the book.*
We become critics when we read.
That's half the fun of it.
The other half is the pleasure of the word.
Prose can be poetry.
Our preferences are as diverse as our personalities.
What I like, you don't, and vice versa.
No book appeals to everyone,
just as no work of art is universally appreciated.
This particular book drew various reactions –
first "enjoyment" and then disappointment.
We agreed that the images were vivid
and the metaphors enlightening,
but the story dragged a bit.
The tragedy's resolution,
arriving at the tale's end, was anticlimactic .
Why had the author waited so long
to get the accused off the hook.
The ample evidence could have been revealed sooner, much sooner,
saving us from suffering endless descriptive passages.
Clearly, dangling was the writer's intent.
No one appreciated being dangled.
We wanted the case resolved posthaste,
with fewer stalling tactics.
"Get on with it,"
seemed the general opinion.
Critics should be aware
(alas, we sometimes are not),
criticism is infinitely easier than creation.
Creation is inspiration
mixed with plain hard work.
Authors, like all artists,
have their way with us.
We're simply along for the ride.
As critics we agreed –
a fine journey: long and well worth it.
"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson
Ears listening to only their lies,
And their lies speaking only to them,
Trying to be quiet yet still screaming,
Drowning in rants never heard,
So concise but not too clear,
Imprisoned in thoughts of obsession,
Muttering useless ancient literary rules,
In love with yet hating poetic expressions,
Foreign to their limited constrained imaginations,
Trapped behind walls of old thought,
Grasping yet never holding reality,
While visions of punctuation and conformity crowd their tiny unexpanded
minds,
Judging without thinking one step ahead,
Thinking thoughts that kill their judgement,
Still their bodies move forward to nowhere,
Their voices the only sound left to comfort them,
Unaware of love just beneath their windows,
Desolation blinds their desperate micro-management brains,
In pathetic awe of ancient written rules,
Never really meant for ones of their ilk,
For they were penned for poets of consciousness,
Aware their times and rules would surely end,
Were never truly meant for all the centuries,
Suffocating in the dust of a past they never lived,
Afraid of new ideas of written expression,
Created from the minds of what they fear most,
Free thinking writers unafraid of literary change,
And still,
They talk and talk and talk, saying absolutely nothing.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
Finds me
Binds me
Cleans me
Frees me
Critics cannot blind and bind my guts
Call me mean, it cleans, frees, can’t rebut.
That's what they say to me,
Writing verse that does not conform,
Style which doesn't comply with their old dead masters,
Using formats that threaten aged literary girdles,
So long ago having lost their stretch,
Constraining brains to the point of not thinking,
Afraid to lose trainees whose minds walk in lock step,
Imaginations dying at the end of a branch that no longer grows,
Clinging to purist letters on wrinkled pages,
While mavericks like me frighten them with one simple word,
Change.
Note: And so critic friends, actually I am so dam happy my mind
is free of your ancient rules.
Copyright © 2014 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2014 Robert William Gruhn
When people love to criticize
Please do not stay there long
Quit that spot by being wise
Or else you may prove wrong
When your efforts are not lauded
Instead when they are attacked
Then, only agonies get added
Happiness can never be tracked
When only criticisms badly flow
And terrific opposition is there
To smartly exit, you must know
Or else you will suffer, dear sir
When too many rules are quoted
With really no good intention at all
Your original talent gets cremated
Then in a deadly trap, you just fall
Never give serious attention to that
Where your genius is easily buried
In case you love to develop regret
Listen to the discouraging deed.
Judgement
certainty wed to criticism
forces, prunes and narrows your sight
your attitudes, insights, actions, values all follow
dwindling down into ever smaller focus
a blind unfeeling faith I call
Predjudice
We I
imperfect beings all, do quite enough
should never long forget self-evaluating, Thanks.
how each of us must begin no need for further unhelpful
as someone else's nonsensical input
all untested now from
"They". You
Know
thyself full well before
thou casts those petty stones
from out thy house of sullied glass;
consult thy mirror closely -
does it reflect
Ignorance?
Ears listening to only their lies,
And their lies speaking only to them,
Trying to be quiet yet still screaming,
Drowning in rants never heard,
So concise but not too clear,
Imprisoned in thoughts of obsession,
Muttering useless ancient literary rules,
In love with yet hating poetic expressions,
Foreign to their limited constrained imaginations,
Trapped behind walls of old thought,
Grasping yet never holding reality,
While visions of punctuation and conformity crowd their tiny unexpanded
minds,
Judging without thinking one step ahead,
Thinking thoughts that kill their judgement,
Still their bodies move forward to nowhere,
Their voices the only sound left to comfort them,
Unaware of love just beneath their windows,
Desolation blinds their desperate micro-management brains,
In pathetic awe of ancient written rules,
Never really meant for ones of their ilk,
For they were penned for poets of consciousness,
Aware their times and rules would surely end,
Were never truly meant for all the centuries,
Suffocating in the dust of a past they never lived,
Afraid of new ideas of written expression,
Created from the minds of what they fear most,
Free thinking writers unafraid of literary change,
And still,
They talk and talk and talk, saying absolutely nothing.
Copyright © 2015 Robert William Gruhn - All Rights Reserved
"A poem to me is the essence of any thought,
Being built from its foundation into tower scraping sky.
It can fly like no other bird to places never seen,
Even spaceships can only dream of taking its place."
© 2015 Robert William Gruhn