Critiques and Revision


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  • Savannah Oakes (5/12/2013 3:14:00 PM) Post reply

    Daydreaming

    I took it all to heart,
    each hasty smile and modest gesture,
    each syllable of dispassionate word,
    to a stage where even I was persuaded,
    the rays veiling your face
    in perfect symmetry,
    were by your own hand.

    I coveted you so,
    for what were you incapable?
    See, you were the rays,
    as you were the smile, the gesture,
    and the word.
    Everything created, then destroyed
    by unadulterated hand,
    but all only in my sight.

    Now I mistrust.
    There are words I thought were spoken
    and actions I thought displayed—
    In fact, illusions and trickery.
    But now I see,
    how you were a dream,
    borne of a skeptic in dangerous reverie.

    This guise I had burdened on you,
    I all the time unawares,
    For it had seemed,
    that when I said move
    —you moved.
    And when I said speak
    —you spoke.

    How does something appearing
    so concrete, so essential
    be confused with truth?
    —to savor another's words
    and have them be your own—
    Eyes blind and still
    having dreams of distant realms—
    but forget it.
    Happiness has gained on me,
    now knowing the best of truth.

    Now there is only whisperings
    of lost voices.
    No more apparitions of smiles,
    gestures, or words—
    such trivial necessities,
    conceived by a fool
    in want of an actor.

  • Roger Horsch (5/12/2013 12:34:00 AM) Post reply

    Hello everyone, Here is some information that could help a lot of poets
    .
    To make your poems great you must always make sure that they have good flow. What I mean by flow is. Picture in your mind how water flows smoothly downward and over rounded obstacles. The flow seems to be uninhibited and everything flows together smoothly. But if there is an obstacle such as a sharp rock or a tree branch in the water it can cause ripples thus causing the water not to flow smoothly. The difference between good, very good or great can be nothing else but the flow of your poem. Always go over your poems over and over again changing what is necessary to make them flow. Always remember that if your poems motivate you and they are drawn from your emotions and your heart to the point that you can feel them. And they have good flow. You will always have the best.

    Keep writting and I invite all to read my poems to see what I mean about the flow of a poem. Roger Hoesch

  • Ragnys Ragna (5/10/2013 10:11:00 PM) Post reply

    Hi everyone! Im new and i wanted some critiques and opinions in the 3 poems that i posted here, if someone could help me, please!

  • Adegbite Adeyinka (5/4/2013 6:35:00 AM) Post reply

    Day I Told Pa A Lie

    Day I told Pa a lie
    The words reply like songs I like
    Guilt blinded me like the night
    Weakness came in mighty might;
    Tears fought back with consoling words
    Came all out in perfect chords,
    Anger, like water in me swell
    Myself I despise as though I smell;
    If I had the future seen
    I'd make a way around the scene,
    Ousted by fear I hid the truth
    Should have been loyal as Ruth;
    For lies can't live forever long
    But truth exists ever strong;
    Albeit Pa believed what I mean
    My conscience pricked hard and mean;
    Cos if the truth itself reveals,
    My face, forever, in shame conceals.

  • Matt Burton (5/3/2013 10:09:00 PM) Post reply

    this is my first poem i ever wrote i call it The Light
    Ive traveled the road less takin
    for awhile i thought it was the only one worth makin
    untill i meet you i was mistakin
    you showed me the light
    i was so far out of sight
    you guided me out and now
    i see you are the one for me
    I was alone with nothing in my heart
    you saved me from the start
    im finally in the light
    i hope the begining is in sight
    because it feels so right
    all it took was just one look to see
    youre the one for me

  • Savannah Oakes (5/3/2013 8:54:00 PM) Post reply

    If I Had Ten More Minutes

    If I had ten more minutes
    and my voice was not faint
    nor my face so devoid
    or my mind so blank,
    I would profess—

    But I'm afraid of words
    which might betray lips,
    For what is kept
    is of my eyes—
    that impulsive organ
    I've attempted to stray;
    hooded, hazed.

    Construing a montage
    ever playing:
    concerns, worries
    fears, and doubts,
    Come to life
    in bursting light
    whilst straining in the dark.

    And if such creations
    could speak—
    or better
    could be heard—
    through the mist of passion
    And masks of pride,

    I would profess
    All in my heart;
    Every quaint murmur
    Forsaken night and night.

  • Savannah Oakes (4/30/2013 7:04:00 PM) Post reply

    Daydreaming

    I took it all to heart,
    each hasty smile and modest gesture,
    each syllable of dispassionate word,
    to a stage where even I was persuaded,
    the rays veiling your face
    in perfect symmetry,
    were by your own hand.

    No—you were the rays, as you were
    the smile, the gesture, and the word.
    Everything created, then destroyed
    by unadulterated hand.
    I coveted you so,
    for what were you incapable?
    —but all only in my sight.

    Now I mistrust.
    There are words I thought were spoken
    and actions I thought displayed—
    In fact—illusions and Trickery.
    But now I see,
    how you were a dream,
    borne of a skeptic in dangerous reverie.

    This guise I had burdened on you,
    I all the time unawares,
    For it had seemed,
    that when I said move
    —you moved.
    And when I said speak
    —you spoke.

    How does something appearing
    so concrete, so essential
    be confused with truth?
    —to savor another's words
    and have them be your own—
    Eyes blind and still
    having dreams of distant realms—
    but forget it.
    Happiness has gained on me,
    now knowing the best of truth.

    Now there is only whisperings,
    of a voice lost.
    No more apparitions of smiles,
    gestures, or words—
    such trivial necessities,
    conceived by a fool
    in want of an actor.

    www.poemhunter.com/poem/daydreaming

  • Farhana Rahman (4/30/2013 9:19:00 AM) Post reply

    Dying for the Blood Moon


    " Alone, alone, all, all alone,
    Alone on a wide wide sea!
    And never a saint took pity on
    My soul in agony."
    The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
    S.T.Coleridge

    Making you a portrait close to heart
    a farewell smile, kisses along with hug
    We did ourselves apart.

    Of love and lies or betrayal precise
    Hence, no gaming left..
    I, queen of Heart declare you " Death"

    Such black night with such bloody moon
    When spirits found a door..
    I announce thy doom.

    Eyes on eyes, lips open, glimpse of teeth
    Undressed chest, blood beneath
    Beating heart
    Trial is start

    Love and death
    Remained choices open
    Second you chose
    Death granted as a token


    I left you alone
    under the bluish black sky
    The blood moon remained
    As witness to cry!

  • Farhana Rahman (4/30/2013 9:16:00 AM) Post reply

    Dying for the Blood Moon


    " Alone, alone, all, all alone,
    Alone on a wide wide sea!
    And never a saint took pity
    on My soul in agony."
    The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, S.T.Coleridge


    Making you a portrait close to heart
    a farewell smile, kisses along with hug
    We did ourselves apart.


    Of love and lies or betrayal precise
    Hence, no gaming left..
    I, queen of Heart declare you " Death"


    Such black night with such bloody moon
    When spirits found a door..
    I announce thy doom.


    Eyes on eyes, lips open, glimpse of teeth
    Undressed chest, blood beneath
    Beating heart
    Trial is start


    Love and death
    Remained choices open
    Second you chose
    Death granted as a token
    .
    .
    .
    .
    .


    I left you alone under the bluish black sky
    The blood moon remained
    As witness to cry!

  • Savannah Oakes (4/29/2013 5:30:00 PM) Post reply

    Daydreaming

    I took it all to heart,
    each hasty smile,
    every modest gesture,
    each syllable of dispassionate word,
    to a stage where even I was persuaded,
    the rays veiling your face,
    in perfect symmetry,
    were by your own hand.

    Hell—you were the rays, as you were
    the smile, the gesture, and the word.
    Everything created, then destroyed
    by your own unadulterated hand.
    Such feats you could reach.
    I coveted you so,
    for what were you incapable?
    —but all only in my sight.

    Now I mistrust.
    There are words I thought were spoken
    and actions I thought were displayed
    by you—but also me.
    Illusions and Trickery
    by me—but not you.
    I see it now:
    how you were a dream,
    borne of a skeptic in dangerous reverie.

    This guise I had burdened upon you,
    how could I be so thoughtless?
    For it had seemed,
    that when I said move
    —you moved.
    And when I said speak
    —you spoke.

    How does something appearing
    so concrete, so essential
    be confused with truth?
    How can you savor another's words
    and have them be your own?
    How could I be so selfish,
    with dreams of distant realms—
    but forget it.
    Happiness has gained on me,
    now knowing the best of truth.

    I hear no more whispers,
    no more apparitions of smiles,
    gestures, or words—
    no matter how hollow,
    cryptic or empty—
    such trivial necessities,
    conceived by a fool
    in want of an actor.

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