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Post and Rate Thread
Please do both
>I shall rate later
>what can I do to improve this?
>The title feels like the weak link. IDK

Title: The DM

We’ll never meet
But, I've seen you feet
They were fine
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The Billy Boiling
The bushman traipsed the Barrier Ranges,
With a billy within his phalanges,
When he spotted a white jumbuck, he howled,
Then hit the sheep square on the head, now fouled,
He had much wool and mutton for the day,
And he sung gaily all night, so they say,
Until the police riders tracked him down,
And his smiling joy turned into a frown,
As he was shipped off to the gaol down south,
Where he never had tea for his dried mouth.
The line breaks are noxious even if you're ironic. I think the whole premise could have been done better with better timing. 5/10.
the tetrameter is nice, except for the last line, which sounds slightly awkward ("dried mouth"), although I'm not sure if that's on purpose or not. The beat lands on "his", which can't be right.
otherwise, the rhythm is quite nice and bouncy, which definitely fits the subject matter well (I think of a Ned Kelly type, bobbing upon his horse as it gallops across the Australian countryside)
Ethereal bonds
The ties that bind
The puppet strings
That hang up high
The puppet strings
That tug your life

Turn to look
See the strings reach up
Into the looking darkness above
Invisible hands tug and pull
You’ve seen the strings
You know the truth
Yet the master still is unknown to you
Reads at about .78 on the Kiplometer. This anon >>19220164 states my thoughts already.


His airy spaces press against the half-ascended canyon,
Where I, the lone man, sit with one bird’s song for my companion
Her fluted warble rings and resonates in hollow spaces,
Where nesting un-birthed life may spring
still further avian graces.

I, the lone man here to cup the water off these rocks;
High, and low, alone; a scion of extinguished flocks.
Our once idyllic parable now winding to its end
Because this salted Earth provides no soil which I may tend.

Her arbored chasm rolling lush across the green divide,
Where banks of fog and cumulus have formed the other side.
And I, the lone man looking out from their same sunlit height,
Twained like vaporous kindred formed in love and bathed in light.

I, God! This lone man’s heart must now exchange a heavy toll,
For full within this canyon is the shining substance of my soul.
But Father – blue, empyrean – verdant Mother, crèche of loam:
Faultless We, becoming nameless; other men unmake our home.

Once above the cloudbank, with the treeline far below,
My mind turns towards the valleys where the muter creatures grow.
And as the thrush goes silent, drowned in unknown insects’ drone,
I, the lone Man, wonder: was that bird’s soft song my own?
4th and 5th lines aren't meant to be broken.
4th stanza slows down in a lovely way.
The rhythm of the piece is well balanced (if not a bit stiff).
The content, however, is somewhat cumbersome.
Although I understand the poem is a sort of allegory, and many of the images you provide operate as metaphor, this does not give you reason to be inconsistent/obscure.

What is a "scion of flocks"? Scion, to me, speaks to me as "offshoot", maybe from a plant. Though you are saying that it (perhaps you) are an offshoot of a flock? Then flock should be singular, not plural?
There is also no hint as to why the flock is extinguished (I think).

How does "vaporous kindred" twain? Vapor dissipates, it does not split. Also, you say it 's "form[ing]", not "splitting", so why use "twain" at all?

You cannot "exchange" a "toll". You can "pay a toll".

"Once above the cloudbank" implies you are rising. I feel like you want to express this.
Is the paying of the "heavy toll" in the earlier stanza which allows this? I am still not sure what this toll is. Is it your "soul"?
Is the relinquishing of ego what allows ascension?
If so, then why do you still refer to yourself as "I" in the final line? You called yourself "We" in the very stanza before.

Your poem raises more questions than it answers. I cannot claim to fully understand what your message is (perhaps destruction of the ego and becoming one with "collective consciousness" or something), but I do feel like this message could be clarified with some sharper metaphors.
I appreciate your input.
No worries. In general, your poem is pretty ok, it gives me "Ariel" vibes.
However, the reason Ariel succeeds in expressing dissolution of self so well is because of the fervent building pace it has--the acceleration of the poem literally p u l l s the subject apart.
It was written in totality as a single expression while I was hiking Mount Mansfield in Vermont (where I am from), caught in the emotion of my parents needing to sell off land to support themselves in retirement. Scion is a reference to the fact I am the last male in four generations of my family to still have the surname, flocks in plural because we are French Canadian on the US side of the border and as a community our traditions have faded, dissipated. I feel a kinship with cumulus clouds, condensations with the most texture, volume, nuance of color under light. We, humans and all beings, are also condensations of particles, and at our basal layer everything is cut from the same constituent cloth.

I have no interest in editing or making anything clearly in this piece. That's not always my philosopht, but this poured out of me wholesale and captures, for me, exactly how I felt in a moment.
It's pentameter.
>The bush / man traipsed / the bar / rier / ranges, /
>With a / billy / within / his pha / langes, /
>Then it / the sheep / square on / the head, / now fouled, /
You are stressing the "rier" of "Barrier"?
I don't know what part of the world you're from, but English speakers use three syllables there.
You have a great analysis and ability to communicate it, though. Would you mind reading through a collection of my family oriented poems, if you're still around, and doing me the same service for pieces I am open to revising?
how can i improve this first stanza for clarity?

From birth have breasts been all I ever craved,
That thereby life is nothing save fulfillment,
But as my pain another needs became,
My stilling cries might suck upon its breast:
Utilize the AUM principle.
I am here for a bit longer, but will sleep soon (not American)

I'm not sure now, I was certain when I read it that it was four beats, with 5 beats only on lines 3 and 4.

u / u / u / u u / u
the BUSHman TRAIPSED the BArrier RANges
/ u / u u / u u / u
WITH a BILly wiTHIN his phaLANges

u / u / u / u u u /
he HAD much WOOL and MUTton for the DAY
u / u / u u / u u /
and HE sung GAIly all NIGHT so they SAY

u / u u / u u / u /
unTIL the poLICE riders TRACKED him DOWN
u / u u / u / u u /
and HIS smiling JOY turned INto a FROWN

This is how I feel it out, although perhaps this is different to how you interpret it
>AUM principle.
what is that?
Even if we take one random line from the way you scanned it, it makes no sense:
>unTIL the poLICE riders TRACKED him DOWN
It should be
>unTIL the POlice RIders TRACKED him DOWN
There's no reason why PO would be unstressed when lots of people who speak English stress it during conversation. People even give it hard inflection when talking.
how are people so dumb to read that and think its tetrameter.
a literature board, and they didn't read it.

poem was bad anyway, being iambic pentameter seemed at contrast with the actual content - the stresses often fell on weird positions in the lines like they weren't actually understanding what they wrote.
the word choices are trite also, like he crammed them in just to bulk it out to pentameter without thinking how it sounded.

boy i cant wait for that trip user to come in and post some more pretentious off-brand ghost of oscar wilde boring trash
Much obliged.


That slight unctuous grain,
oiled by a body at ease and
abstracted in crosswords
from sclerotic pain
maroon and striped navy blue;
I’d give it a constant how-do-you-do
(a child’s habit it’s true)
run fingers this way and that
bending fibers toward a
different shade
slightly lighter
where they’d stay and not fade
“how”, I would think
“was this made”

How is it I remember this?
This vivid tactile recollection
My toddling mechanistic reflection
I can still inhabit that space
Still look up at that bearded face
It was a smaller hand I had back then,
and though it feels the same,
I can't touch that chair again.
There are burdens that he carries well
One will never trace the circles of
That guarded inner Hell.
His face draws subtle lines.
They’re all I’ll ever know.
Creased brow, pressed lips
That make a stone’s discourse on woe.

Never so benevolent a frown -
Concern and dark emotion fixed
Against all lettings down.
Melancholic, pensive features
Now amused to see their place
Paternalistic charcoal rubbings
Smear themselves upon my face.
>the stresses often fell on weird positions in the lines like they weren't actually understanding what they wrote.
More like you didn't understand what you read, chud.
Yeah, over here, we do not stress the PO in police.
Instead of saying "it's the POlice" (like the Americans might say PO-PO"), we really do say poLICE", with the second syllable longer (puh-LEES).

12 seconds in:
Apple Update Method: throw it out and get a new one.
I'm Australian, you retard. No way out of this.
can you actually critique properly and tell me what is wrong with it so when i do follow your advice i can avoid making the same mistakes.
Aym AustRAILeean, you RHEEtard. Nowai outta this. Different anon here, I just like your banter mate.
but it's one hundred percent not iambic.
If the stresses fall on weird positions, then they are not the stresses...?
I feel like you have no idea what you are saying.
Meter can be interpreted in different ways, not everything has to follow a balanced rhythm.
An earnest response to me being a prick? Request granted! Although I warn you, I am a mere retard and pseud behind this veil of retarded pseudery.
then what the fuck are you saying, who the fuck says PO-lice? Like when would you ever say police when the "PO" the longer and more emphasised than the "LICE"?
Go to Queensland, you urbanite Melbourne faggot Waldun cocksucker. They say "Oh FARK it's PUH-lees..."
Like, say a fuckn sentence with the word police in it, like: "Oh shit the police are here"
You seriously say it like "Oh shit, the POH-lees are here", and not "Oh shit, the puh-LEES are here"?

>And he /sung gai/ly all /night, so/ they say,
The comma dividing the fourth foot is jarring since it indicates a pause or break.

>And his/ smiling /joy turned/ into /a frown,
The stress on his is jarring.

>Where he/ never /had tea/ for his /dried mouth.
The stress on he is jarring.

It's not my fault you're of limited capability, chud.
If you want to continue writing trash keep on chugging
fuck off, you do say "puh-lees". Hey, newsflash buddy, the LEES is the stressed syllable. Maybe you need a quick lesson: a stressed syllable is the one which is "higher in pitch, longer in duration, and generally a little louder".
Now, when you say fuckn "police", is the fuckn "puh" a bit longer, or the "LEES" a bit longer?
you're retarded sorry

If its not Iambic (stressing the second syllable of each foot) then its Trochaic (stressing the first syllable of each foot) and sounds EVEN MORE RETARDED
>The comma dividing the fourth foot is jarring since it indicates a pause or break.
Completely wrong, because commas also indicate flow, rather than pauses.
>The stress on his is jarring.
Um, no it isn't.
>The stress on he is jarring.
How? Give some reasons other than your personal fee-fees.
>It's not my fault you're of limited capability, chud.
You can barely critique poetry.
>If you want to continue writing trash keep on chugging
I still have several poems published, and you don't.
are you serious?
Not all meter has to conform to a pattern.
Stressed and unstressed syllables fall naturally on certain syllables, just like they do in normal spoken word.
You cannot say all poetry must adhere to "iambic" and "trochaic" patterns, that's not how meter works.
Listen to how long she says "PUH" and softly she says "lees"
There. One video showed you you're wrong.
let's just stress none of the syllables then i guess and everthing works :)

post them :)
>post them :)
>one video showed you you're wrong
Mate, did you see the video I linked earlier? That one clearly demonstrates the LEES is stressed. Even in your fuckn video, the LEES is clearly LONGER and HIGHER.
Get your ears checked. I'm sure you're deaf as well as stupid. Even that guy I'm arguing with said you're wrong about penty.
No, I want you to realise how retarded you were when you said that "all poetry has to be either iambic or trochaic".
Like, actually think about what you said.

That guy is almost as clueless as you, so it makes sense that you're both struggling to understand each other
its in pentameter its going to be iambic or trochaic - it cannot be any of the other variations as that would require more syllables in the line making it not pentameter.
therefore in that circumstance it has to be one of the two.
and if he was counting on the audience to just innately know that it was in some weird non-standard pentameter, or as you seem to suggest just a collection of random stresses, then he should at least take care to write those stresses into the words instead of dropping it in to a default format and hoping for the best.

this woman has pronouns in their twitter bio, they do not come to 4chan
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Here's my actual work I've posted before. Lets see you tell me how it's not Iambic Pentameter now.
I feel like the phrasing of line two is unclear. If you're trying, as I think, to paint life as a search for fulfillment (with breasts as an analogy for all kinds of fulfillment), the way it reads sounds more like you're saying life is already fulfillment. Something like "And thereby thirst for nothing save"
This is the stronger of the three poems you posted.
I like the lightness of the first stanza's "different shade / slightly lighter", as it aligns well with the feeling of wispy, distant memory.
I do not think you need the apostrophes for your thoughts.
They are part of the memory, and therefore part of the poem. In my eyes, they do not need to be made separate.

However, the second stanza's "vivid tactile recollection / my toddling mechanistic reflection" creates a harshness and heaviness which feels unnatural.
I'm not sure if it's your intention, but I feel like your goal is not to express this.
As a second stanza, I feel like you're trying to create as sense of loss.
Freeing up some space, and letting some of the lines linger, could create a sensation which expresses this.

I feel like you do not need to end with a couplet. Although you might want to sound conclusive, it is a bit cliche.
There are stronger ways in which you can close a poem sharply and forcefully.

Sorry, I cannot provide criticism for your other poem, as I have wasted too much time arguing with my fellow Australians about asinine shit.

funny for you to criticize awkward stressing when you wrote line 5.
>funny for you to criticize awkward stressing when you wrote line 5.
To DRINK and REVel AS some BIRDS show TITS
Better, Mr Melbourne?
I feel like you have yet to understand that poetry does not have to strictly adhere to a single poetic meter. You can mix iambs, spondees, anapaests, dactyls, whatever, into any form you find pleasing to the ear.

Here, enjoy this Yeats poem I found on wikipedia, an example of hexameter which 'intersperses anapests and iambs, using six-foot lines'

Fled foam underneath us and 'round us, a wandering and milky smoke
As high as the saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide
And those that fled and that followed from the foam-pale distance broke.
The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces and sighed.

Just because your understanding is basic does not mean we all have to conform to it.
If you read the entire poem, you would see a line of HEXAMETER called an Alexandrine line. You are so insufferably under read that a piece of Spenserian Stanza flew over your head.
I will not lie, I skimmed your poem, as I dislike you
As a practice exercise, try to find how many stresses there are in my insult to you >>19221071

The dimwit here who cannot pronounce "police" can also participate
>I will not lie, I skimmed your poem, as I dislike you
A critic who allows his emotions to get in the way of reading is no critic at all, but a beast. Goodbye.
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Would it bother you to know that I've been published and have no idea what the hell that even means
'bushman' like someone enjoying bushes and woods? why did puhlice abuse the singing boi?
very straightforward. sets mind unto imaginings.
homeless man (silent) agony. 'flocks' together with pathos of being a lone man doesn't rhyme. once a lone man (perhaps, he's the bush enthusiast from the first post?) is a lone men, the 'Faultless We' is no more. no doubt, he will sing of the 'shining substance' of the Soul. (and many will hate him)
decent desu.
I scream
Why none does see
Cowards hide
the irony

While out my open mouth
Saliva drops
I crawl along all-faded tropes
Not being able to discern
It feels — evaporated hope


yet I despise the smug contentment
Just as much


And then we tripping guilt
The voiceless beggars on defeat
I cannot shake these chains
Of my eternal shame
I watch them self-inflate. The pain
Of seeing dirt, dysmorphia and evil
It is so low in energy invoking Jesus.
But they keep doing it
And do it mockingly
Yes — certainly
This Eidolon is poisoned
Yet do you see?

But as it were and so it will endure
The wisdom that is seeking health and cure
'Physician, heal thyself.’ — I stop,
The weight of this is all too true.
I wrote it few days ago being annoyingly jumpy in the spirit. fix:
>But as it were and so it will endure
>The wisdom that is seeking health and cure
>'Physician, heal thyself.’ — I stop,
>The weight of this is all too true and pure.
that way seems more complete.
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Not really. The publishing industry is shit, and I'm evidence of it. I come here to shitpost and have flame wars with Melbournians at the early hours of the day.

yes that is exactly what i am trying to potray. Please help me
>I will not eat bugs
>I will not live in a pod
>Hate the Antichrist
>”God is dead, we have
>killed him” — what of it?xmr8a
(Therefore/And thus) I thirst for nothing save fulfillment
But as my need has other pains become

I am not sure what "stilling cries" is supposed to mean.
as for the last line, i wanted to convey an image of a baby crying but there being no sound coming out of his mouth. The third line is meant to mean that others need me to be in pain for them to be fulfilled.
The Dancing Lovers

Out of the darkness comes a glimmer of light
Shadows dancing on her torn and tattered heart
Empty hollow sadness fading away with the night
Two lovers once in sync forever doomed to be apart
Calm peace Sun for one burning aching fire for the other
Innocent victims of circumstances far beyond their control
Mistress cruel fate decides the lovers destiny is to suffer
I was always one to tempt fate and save my own soul
Don’t worry love I shall look for you in the stars Waiting to dance away our irrational fears
Two dancing lovers given a second chance
Tall order for an enthusiastic midwit like myself. Sounds like a lot of imagery to pack into just four lines of one stanza. Maybe you just need to make a poem longer in general.
Hilarious how /lit/ attempts to have poetry threads when 90% of them don't know how to recognise stress let alone write in meter
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Oh, Rosechu, you are as beautiful as a rose,
though a Zapbud is the flower that heals your woes.

You shock me with your electrifying radiance,
If I evolve into your knight, I will protect you with my lance.

Speed makes no difference, though you are slower than I,
You dance in a field with such grace and style. Sigh…

I will run great distances for thee,
for I can run very fast and never get a strained knee.

Rosey, as often as birds tweet,
will you be my lovely heartsweet?
get over it nazi chud, poetry isn't stuck in white nationalistic 16th ce England
u / u u u / u / u / / u u / u / u u / u / / u / u / u u / / u / / u / u
Did I do it right?
Also, here’s a poem I wrote after a Baudelaire session:
Springtime agony licked your skin
Like a wire. You drank from the sea
And vomited flesh, the bread of wine.
Summer came without its venom;
Our silent minds postponed the thought
Of dying in its fangs. We danced!
Writhing, drumming, mixing
Wounds with suns, our bodies broken...
We fled. A thousand horrors
Followed on our breath’s perfume,
My most destructive, nightly love!
Fuck you you bluebottle cunt
You thought you could fucking fly in here and start harrassing me as I eat pork crackling?
You fucking insectoid fuck, get fucking deodorant bursted you fuck.
Thats right. Die. Die. THe last thing you can process is plummeting to the ground after getting into the wrong depressed enbies room!

A piece of victory slam poetry about my battle with a bluebottle.
Hate that sits aside the road
Running from
And to
And fro
Hating all that runs along it
Hate that feeds and grows itself
An autonomous ball of gnashing and blood
Gnashing of words and feelings and gum
Gnashing of all that was ever hurt and continues to hurt
Blood that flows listlessly and in any direction
Carries on
And on
A stream flows from it and pools at the bottom of some gut
It makes the gnashing worse
It reddens the road
It makes the worse gnashing even more worse
On and on
And flowing and biting
And the teeth were formless
A vague shape of blades or knives
All threatening still
But with no structure
And the road still ran
And the blood only ever flowed from itself
And the gnashing never chewed anything
And the gut only filled
Never to be full or warm
Only the cold emptiness
And the blood ran
How much of a pale can be filled
With all of the sorrows of the dead?
A worry to only those who have killed,
That those who kill, mark everyone’s head.
These listless counts of murder and rot
Postponed by only the stain of sin.
That mark is quickly rendered not
To everyone who kill once again.
A sorrow to some, a joy to most,
Tragedy, that tragic, too familiar cry,
A tick, a hound, the same pest and host
And once again, sentence to die.
Question for the published poets itt: Where do you find a poetry editor who's interested in counter-culture-y stuff? Most seems to care solely about under-represented voices, immigration stories, etc. I've had books published before, but I have no idea who to consult for this one. Any tips?
>once a lone man (perhaps, he's the bush enthusiast from the first post?) is a lone men, the 'Faultless We' is no more.
aye, but a lone man can take the path to be a faultless we, no?
Your poem is alright I guess.
In not Australian though. I don't think I'm the intended audience.
>The line breaks are noxious even if you're ironic. I think the whole premise could have been done better with better timing
How would I improve the line breaks?
Show me a superior edit.
The concept is there. I know what your talking about. But the execution is boring. Feels like I'm reading a list
>I cannot shake these chains
>Of my eternal shame
>I watch them self-inflate. The pain

These three lines were the best of my opinion. >>19222858
Some help with this would be appreciated thanks. Is this any better?

>Title: The DM

>Well, we’ll never meet
>But I've seen you feet, online
>They were fine, indeed
I want to starve to death
Wearing rags with unwashed hair
Somewhere you have to see it
Waiting for anyone to write an actual poem
Did you ever say you wanted a Swan?
Or did you say you were a Swan?
I don’t think that was true
Swans are pretty, but have ugly temperaments, and that wasn’t you

Did we ever walk by that river?
I think you said that I’m like the water
Or did you say I’m like the moon, shining down on the streaming water?
I’m sorry I wasn’t listening, I was there for you, not the river or the moon.

Did you ever like the cemetery?
We went there together once
I showed you my dead sister
I don’t think you said anything
But I remember your arm around me
We just stared at her grave for a while.
I didn’t think that so soon I would be staring at yours.
personally I would have gone with

u / u u / u / u / / u / / u / u u / u u / u / u / u / / u u / / u / u

i acknowledge the merit in your scansion though
*the syllable 'try' should be u
the moment anything even remotely passable gets posted on here I guarantee it's going to be plagiarized
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Posting ole reliable

This starts somewhere almost interesting but falls flat by the end. Give yourself some space and use more line breaks in the second stanza
Good stuff anon, really carries some bitter resentment at encroaching memory.

This imitative shell through which my true existence breathes
And peers through stained glass orioles upon St. Alban’s wreaths

In each distinctive tincture of the flowers
here beheld,
I see the joint of beauty: Eye and Object, Nature’s weld.

And for each fleeting instant that the Monarch fans her form
She and this human insect sate together – sunlit, warm.

Within this stone-rimmed mulch arrayed
For all around to see
Grows but one season’s offering and the whole Humanity
I was with you the whole way until the last line
that's very neo-Keatsian of you, good job anon
not certain about the 10 line length, though, I feel I want more of what I just read
Is it that the ending is a weak vaguery, a pseudo-conclusion without real depth?

Yeah, I can see your beef, but the lines occured to me thusy, flow well to my reading, and don't bust up neatly into consistent 6/8 syllable lines. I agree, though, even posting it I thought they looked wonky.

Here is a piece about the monk who famously burned himself in Vietnam.


An immolated monk transcends his pain;
Draws on some inner force to weather death.
His body burns, as still as under rain,
And peace is drawn within that furnace breath.

Tell me, how is it Nature yields this sight:
A face half-swallowed by a gouting fire,
Yet half reposed, near thoughtful on the pyre
As if the flames were merely temple light?

Extinguished life ablaze, that blackened shade
Collapsed. His flesh – as motes of ash – blew by.
Through all my years, that image doesn’t fade
And still I ask: what was he, and what am I?
Oh God, forgive that awful phone capture.
"Shines all that is or ever was. And all there'll ever be."
interesting idea with the monk, I like the last stanza better htan the other two, it's closer to your "Lines Written in Taylor Park" in style and wordcraft.
The other stanzas aren't bad per se, but the contrast makes them seem too simplistic, though if we were to approach it as an ecphrastic poem hmm... I'm not entirely sure, but I'd look at their grammatical structure and try to make it more varied, for example

"In each distinctive tincture of the flowers
here beheld,
I see the joint of beauty: Eye and Object, Nature’s weld."

as opposed to

"An immolated monk transcends his pain;
Draws on some inner force to weather death.
His body burns, as still as under rain,
And peace is drawn within that furnace breath."

I'm not a fan of simple sentences broken down in a simple way into separate lines, but then again I do like my Romantic poets probably too much.
TTD was written as an exercise in iambic pentameter. The simplicity of that piece is reflective of how the image has caught in my mind as awe and horror repeated so often it is easily distilled. I also don't have any particular inclination of getting to one specific style, most of my poems occur in very short periods of time to me and then maybe get edited later on (something I am getting better at as I get older and less freakishly obsessed about preserving everything in factory set inspiration).

Here is something I wrote on the 8th that another anon said was Romantic.


I fell a night and half a day
Through those Elysian tracts
Where, windblown, fly the willow leaves
And petals slip their bracts.

I felt the glow of lantern lights,
All garland decked in blue.
Spread blooms of freckled amaranth
Above a grin of dew.

I stood at peace, a little while,
Beside that conjured Muse
Whose glance I caught, a little while,
And held. And was refused.

Oh I! ejected from that bower
Need only to recall:
Those eyes, that breeze; their limpid power
And, once again, I fall.

The even numbered lines are all supposed to be indented, god damn it.
let's just forget about formatting when posting on here, don't worry. This is definitely very Romantic and I like it a lot, once again - good job, anon. Though admittedly biased, I think there's a possibility for a revival of the style and some of the concepts behind the movement.
Those two are really good, though in both cases the ending could be more impactful.
got more poems? really liked this one
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Sure, thanks.
Actually, this one is better than my other, maybe.

I must've known that evening,
and maybe long before,
that you would never be mine,
or I, yours.
Still, I watched you there,
in that impossibly bright room,
where the air itself seemed to bend
around your form to take the shape
of not your body, but the tomb
of that which within you, I knew,
would soon leave me.

And now, sometimes at night,
when I sleep until I can't anymore,
my capillaries screaming,
I use the window, not the door.
My gaze is raised to find stars,
the way they stain the sky
like boxcar graffiti, beautiful
but distant in their long voyage,
to know the pain of their light,
that it has died, now dies,
is always dying upon us.

But we are bound by gravity
and neither of us can be sure
exactly where our bones will rest,
in graves, or just dirt.
I like this more but there's still probably a better version of that line. This works though
As long as my instinct has a working compass, it's a start.
Oo, wait. I think it needs to be more intimate.

Arrayed within this stone-rimmed mulch, as all humanity,
Shines all that is or ever was. And every part of me.
as my humanity*
Last line should flow a little better.

Shines all that is or ever was, else every part of me

Something akin to that, just don't put a period midway through your final line, unless you want some kind of awkward break like that
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>'bushman' like someone enjoying bushes and woods?
Get thee to a library!
Watch me wallaby's feed, mate. Watch me wallaby's feed. They're a dangerous breed, mate.

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