Long Critiques Poems
Long Critiques Poems. Below are the most popular long Critiques by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Critiques poems by poem length and keyword.
My poems are written from my heart.
I have no control over them, they travel where they want.
I am their first reader, and super critical – changing the same word back and forth.
Leave to go, go to leave, leave back to go.
I have always had a problem liking my own talents.
They never fully satisfy me.
My most avid readers are men with a sense of humor.
My husband, who reads every word and thinks each is about him.
And three other men who love to laugh, and want something funny.
I write from my heart, not caring about their opinion or my own.
My muse is all-powerful and needs no critiques or edits from me.
WHERE FROZEN EMBERS STILL BURN
When will periwinkle dreams entwine with my lifesong?
deadly winter has blanket me? [Long, ah! so long...]
Has bloody ferns swirl then froze me as falling snow
for acrid critiques cold cloud? [T'was wrong, Oh so wrong...]
Doubts and worries weaken my weary feet
but teeming catalysts from a compassionate God
activate talent embers, once frozen to heat--
telling: "TRUST, GO AND START!", an alarm from above.
Bearing a faith anew, I spread my wings to fly;
walking even over blitz agonizing talk for ply.
Cracking myself from iceberg of fears--
twining myself to God's glory, a clear dear!
Braiding faith and hardwork in cornerstone steel,
spirits shoot hope that guards, a powerful feel.
Unfolding gifts from long frozen hearts to burn,
now mightily restored with heaven's love way turn...
(c)
10:16am
August 22, 2014
Death rides this legacy with me
Hope floats on this legacy with me
Given the chance I beg of thee to see
That only death rides this legacy with me
In this dignified gathering
The chance to live life only seems flattering
Under the the heavens we remain caustic critiques
For one we are to exhausted to admit it
I only wish I could visualize peace for a day
Left a peasant to utilize his treasures and feast in such a way
As we each lead expedient lives
Population needy as infected hives
Let me make this brief and laconic
Spit rhymes similiar to plates, tectonic
Perhaps my good deeds will provide my soul remedy
I promise you won't see me at them pearly gates
Due to our fathers sympathy
Satan says he's coming back
Well come on with it, my flesh is forever chapped
Organisms grazing in the cemetery
Autopsy's blank
Sinners praying for the reasons vary
Even if I could lift my head
My pupils would be blind from the tears they shed
And when they hang me
I pray they slit my throat
Accuzations of riding high
Crooked cops wondering where I hid my dope
Legs dangling over grit and moat
So silly how they tried to strangle me with soap
If I could roll my words in tightened balls
and throw them then, against the critiques walls
some might stick while all the others fall
like drunkards, stagger home after last call
to greet the rising sun with swollen eyes
scratch upon a napkin despair’s lies
folded in a pocket o’er my heart
the musings of a fool and midnight’s tart.
Oh God, this heaven, darker than its hell,
unwoven words their silence yet to tell
curse the day the scattered words were found
condemned by courts whose words were never bound.
And so I roll these words in tightened balls
and throw them still against the critiques walls.
©4/24/2018
submitted to – LATE APRIL STANDARD CONTEST
sponsor – Brian Strand
Dear New Poet,
Modern poetry to me engages readers in seeking their own deep or higher meaning to life experiences. It utilizes symbolism imagery and varied verse that speaks to intellect and emotion.
The best advice I have is that which was given to me:
1) Read all types of poetry every chance you can. Make notes of poets you like and why; note poetry forms that appeal to you.
2) Make lists of words, expressions, phrases you find fascinating, interesting, anything that grabs your attention. Also, keep lists of new words and definitions. I use phone apps for notes, lists, thesaurus, dictionary.
3) Write about your own experiences, beliefs, life. Write in a quiet place. Jot down whatever comes to mind, your feelings. Anytime you get an inspiration, write it down, record it. Those thoughts you just know you will remember forever will float away in no time at all.
4) Experiment. Try different word placements, edit edit, edit. Leave it for awhile or overnight. Edit again. Read your piece outloud. Pay attention to awkward points and edit those.
5) Have fun with it. Throughout the day, observe situations and people. Be open to suggestions and critiques. Poets never stop learning.
A workshop assignment led me to poetry at a time when I was emotionally on overload. Besides being therapeutic, writing poetry gives me a sense of accomplishment.
Favorite THEMES include the joy and pain of 1) Love, 2) Family, 3) Sobriety, 4) Death, 5) Nature.
My favorite REFERENCE sources are: 1) rhymezone.com, 2) howmanysyllables.com, 3) PoetrySoup Cliche Finder, 4) smallseotools.come, 5) shadowpoetry.com
Favorite poems I have written are: 1) Grandsons, 2) Absence, 3) Remembering Johnna, 4) Lady, 5) Surrender or Die, 6) Pocket Watch 2, 7) Time Of Us, 8) No More, 9) Girls of Halloween, 10) Halloween Birthday.
My literary BACKGROUND: Always an avid reader, journalism courses led to newspaper editing and reporting. After 25+ years of a successful medical research and transcription career, physical problems forced a change. As a member of a local writers group, two short stories were published, and in the last few years, as an aspiring poet, several poems have been published.
Possible Title - Let Your Poems Say It For You
May 15, 2018
Tips For Modern Poetry Contest by Line Gauthier
Third Place
Art is a virtue
Still life too realistic
I see the cold insinuations
Yet it too builds a wall
With good intentions
I push the brush
And dip into lush hues
Painting to my hearts consent
Then words hush
I sit in solitude as well
And think
Critiques are in my head
It's LINE I define
I break it up
I continue to paint
Changing definition instead
I see space an element
It grabs me
I embrace my brush again
It overwhelms me
Painting hues
I see the virtue
It is my dream
Though it may seem
The artists hands
Predominant
The ideal
See the painting
Each stroke made it real
And the desire
It then became
Evident.
by Khalil "The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind."
The teacher I remember as the best
stood out easily from all the rest.
She taught creative writing. At that time,
I had no clue when older how I’d love to rhyme.
She’d have us sit in a circle, for that
encouraged students more to want to chat.
Instead of seeing others from the rear,
we got to see the faces of each peer.
In our giant circle, we would discuss
our own opinions, and it is a plus
when students can feel comfortable and free
to say what’s on their mind; that’s great to me!
After learning different ways to write,
we’d write at home, and it was a delight
to share our poems and short stories too
with one another and get points of view.
On work I handed in, feedback I would get.
Critiques this teacher gave to us, and yet
I felt this teacher cared for us because
she helped us know our strengths, not just our flaws.
Our teacher made class fun with games we played.
With these activities, our teacher made
us be creative, for she did not preach.
I hope like her I’ve been wise when I teach.
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
I am learning more about me.
Who I am and who I aim to be.
I have found an outlet of sorts
That allows me all resorts.
The Soup has given me many new friends
Ones that have put me on the path to mends.
All the lovely comments and critiques
Help me to learn new techniques.
Some are family and are biased
But the one that remains the highest.
Comes from a dear sweet friend
Who likes my work to no end.
Or maybe just my name
Whatever, remains the same.
His work speaks to me
In my minds eye can see
All the places and scenes
Playing out on a screen
Some shock like a taser
Thank you dear James Fraser
I have been writing since a child ...
my little stories ... made my family smile
but as I grew older I wrote deeper
I began writing poems like a true weeper
poems full of emotion
and writing became my devotion
~ I am not sure what was the decisive moment
but God had blessed me with a poetic bestowment ~
and then came the defining
I crossed the bridge to poetry refining
and new forms I was designing
posting my poems on line with praise shining
clearly, to melancholy writing I was inclining
~ I know writing is my destiny and serendipity
though of course I have received critiques snippety ~
but, over and over I got God's divine decree
and have traversed this passage free
cannot tell you the exact moment or hour
that I knew I had word power ...
so thankful for my rubicon crossing that is my truth
it was my ... 'pledge' ... as I left my youth
~ I now write poems of nature and love
though my forte are words for those gone above
and so I write ... words sublime
words verse free, in forms and in rhyme ~
"oh yes, I have crossed the bridge of no return
for night and day in my head words churn "
____________________
October 11, 2021
Poetry/Rhyme/Rubicon Crossing
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1396-655-11
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Title chosen - Rubicon Crossing
Written for the Standard contest, Pick-A-Title, Vol. 26
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Judged 11/02/2021
Third Place