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May 21, 2005 12:30

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yes. majestic_lies May 22 2005, 02:23:01 UTC
I like the way you write your poetry.
It seems like broken up prose yet you write it in a way that in any other form it wouldnt seem quite as...elegant.
I might really critique later.

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Re: yes. woodsmans_wife May 23 2005, 20:17:07 UTC
Thank you.
Yeah, most of my poems are written as narratives, but I hope to experiment outside this realm as well.
Would love a critique.

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Re: yes. majestic_lies May 24 2005, 16:31:20 UTC
there are two other members that should have voted but as the mod i am going to say that you are accepted. you are allowed to critique and post and whatnot.
welcome.

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i promised this. majestic_lies May 29 2005, 07:27:58 UTC
The Woodsman
--------------
He was first in the dairy
and then near the produce; groping fruit,
mostly peaches to roll
against the roots of his chin.

the image of the peaches seems kind of thrown in there. its neat however doesnt really seem to serve much of a purpose without reasoning behind why he does this

He said he came down the mountain
for his first supermarket. I could guess as much;
his shoes were strips of bark and his shirt was bird wings
all sewn together, up and around his neck. What graced his legs,
I did not ask, fearing it was only mud.

here your lines seem to get longer. its almost more just barely broken up prose than it is lined poetry I took his wrist, even with their mire hats ( ... )

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Re: i promised this. majestic_lies May 29 2005, 07:29:53 UTC


Mediocrity
-----------------------
I will drown until morning,
why are you drowning and why just till morning? this image seems very cliche
in the side-street rivers
what exactly would be a side street river, rivers in the actual streets? why there?
When my neighbor’s slippers flop to the newspaper,
she will lift the classifieds and find
my teeth with acid traces, the runoff on my cheeks
looking like a smile
its a nice image but very confusing images with no reasoning behind them.
She will pull me around her like a shawl,
unwrapping my body at every door,
draping me across my mother at my own
before walking back to her burnt toast

My head hanging off a couch cushion
mother would strike a small fire
to run its way through the phone lines
Paramedics follow the smoke,
come and shove me into the wall

The casket rises as it falls
because that someone plucking
awkwardly through my room’s belongings
will find these journals slid
between the bed and window

you are good with odd images but seem to have no reasoning as to why ( ... )

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