I had to write a poem for my 18th Century Literature course about my interpretation of the opposite sex. Seeing as I am male, here is my opinion, interpretation, and understanding of girls as it stands as of this date.
Quote from: GlassFair as anything under the Sun, or even the moon for that matter.
She takes any light thrown upon her, and returns it in a show of color.
Subject to abuse day in and day out,
yet so fragile that it should astound.
Ringing with laughter, yet hollow inside,
can she truly be so transparent?
Hard work and tears go into her beauty,
an unending affair with glamour.
She'll steal your breath with a glance,
or your heart with a touch,
and her whisper will find your pulse rising.
But at the end of the day, she will be nothing more,
than a hard, cold, and expensive bauble.
Critical Notes: I started out with a rhyme scheme, but the work was rushed, and so it decayed. I feel it still sounds poetic, but post your thoughts and reassure me. :P
Disclaimer: I mean no offense, and this is but one of my poetic interpretations of the feminine subject. It is not based on any specific individual, and all similarities to real people or events are entirely coincedental.
Well these things are subjective. It doesn't flow well for me. The language seems choppy, and it jumps around a lot.
EDIT: Reading the title can help sometimes. I see what you're doing there. In that case it's actually quite good.
I like the content, but I really don't like the rythm. It reads with a semblance of meter, but the lack of rhyming words really makes the work feel flat. The apparent double-length of the first two lines as compared with the rest of the poem particularly gives the impression that it will rhyme. I'd like to read it with rhyme reinstituted, as the idea is a good one.
And in terms of offensive potential: well, it's for an 18th Century Literature course. How politically correct do you need to be to objectify and dehumanise women like a 1700's socialite? The tone is therefore perfect.
I'll work on a v.2.0 sometime, but as stated, it was written quickly. With some better rhymes, perhaps it'll come out better.
Quote from: Call me AngelAnd in terms of offensive potential: well, it's for an 18th Century Literature course. How politically correct do you need to be to objectify and dehumanise women like a 1700's socialite? The tone is therefore perfect.
:Insert ROFL emoticon here:
This poem is bitter much? I guess they aren't all daises. Keep 'em coming, it was worth reading.
Revised, and hopefully improved. Comments?
Quote from: Glass (revised)Fair as anything under the sun, or even the moon for that matter.
She takes any light thrown upon her, and returns it in a show of color.
Subject to abuse day in and day out, yet so fragile that it should astound.
Ringing with laughter, yet hollow inside, we never hear her cry.
Is there any life within that glorious shell, will this ache in my heart never die?
Hard work and tears go into her beauty, an unending affair with glamour.
She'll steal your breath with a glance, or your heart with a touch, and her voice is an angel's whisper.
Time of mine, becomes time of hers, nothing else is as important.
Her wishes are mine, at the slightest whim, her will renders mine impotent.
But at the end of the day, she will be nothing more,
than a hard, cold, and expensive bauble.
Her golden lockes are just painted on, her heartbeats a mechanical clatter.
Nothing honest can live in that shell, nothing that really does matter.
It's nice, though with the changes it seems to lose a bit of the implied metaphor to glass. If that is the theme, that women are like glass, then all devices: Structure, rhyme, literary devices should support that. Now you've gone into other features of womanhood without connecting them to glass.
It certainly is a nicer read than before, but I just worry you've gone too far to favor form over function.
Another poem, this time for eleventh grade English. Enjoy.
Quote from: The WaltzBack and forth, together and apart, a rhythm guiding it all.
Itâ,¬,,¢s what we need, what we hate, but we attend every ball.
The swirl of dresses, the clack of heels, the beat of the musicâ,¬Â¦
Pulled together, then apart, is it really worth it?
Steps guided by the past, desire for the future.
Twisting our hearts to cross paths, tears mark the trail away.
Once the violins are gone, the flutes have stopped their whining.
What happens when the symphony ends, do we just stop dancing?
Notes: I might rewrite this later so that it can be read in 3/4 time, but I'm not so sure it's worth the effort.
It feels like this isn't really about a waltz. Is it a metaphor for something?
Quote from: Seraphine_HarmoniumIt feels like this isn't really about a waltz. Is it a metaphor for something?
The Waltz[/i] is a metaphor for a relationship, strained by time and distance, broken and mended again.
Some poetic thought so mine, although they might not be very high-quality, I need to express them, and ironically, the only place I feel comfortable doing that is here.
QuoteA crisp breeze weaves around the trees, rustling the last of Autumn's incarnadine leaves. A wisp of smoke curls upwards, taking a meandering trek to the heavens. Tracing the path to a cigarette, finds a young maid on a bench in a park. A park filled with barren trees and the wind that comes right before snow. She inhales through the cancerous cylinder, and releases a cloud of toxic, yet strangely intriguing vapors. The vapor swirls, dances, like the girl's heart did, once.
Once, before she dyed her hair.
Before she painted her nails black more often than pink.
Before she got high after school and slept at home one night out of seven.
Now she sits here, breathing in death itself and watches the twisted remains of spring fall about her. She wonders if she will shrivel and die just like that, one day. No, she knows that it will happen, but to wonder is to admit the possibility that it might not happen, and that is a comforting delusion.
She shivers once, then twice, a jarring return to a reality she never asked for. It's time to go home, before the snow does come. It's time to go home...
If I was the NY Times, I'd write "A poignant, heartwarming tale of personal redemption." Of course, if I was the NY Times, I'd kill myself.
Seriously, though, good work. Intentional or not, the use of snow as allegory really sells the piece. I would suggest softening the words a bit, though, as the work profits - surprisingly enough - from its warmth. To that end, you may consder dropping "cancerous" and "twisted" (I'm not sure about "toxic"). I think the points are conveyed well enough, in a more subtle, suggestive fashion, without the adjectives.
Also, I'm not familiar with North-Hemisphere seasonal customs, but should snow really follow spring?
But once again, fantastic!
Well, it's winter, or late fall. The "twisted remains of spring" that are falling are the last few leaves, I imagine.
That said, there are a few grammatical issues that would clean up your piece a bit. Things like,
QuoteTracing the path to a cigarette, finds a young maid on a bench in a park.
This sentence appears to have no subject. That is, you need to have someone or something doing the tracing and the finding.
But I agree with Salacious. You are making your point just fine without being histrionic. There's really no need to beat the reader over the head with super-vivid words!
I think the thing that's pulling me out of the moment here is that this piece reads like an anti-smoking public service announcement. Sure, the cigarette is a very visual symbol of the bad choices she's made and the destructive lifestyle she's embraced-- it's even a fun one to use, because smoke curls are evocative-- but surely there are other indicators you might rely on a little more instead? Phrases like "breathing in death itself" are a little heavyhanded, I think.
Really, it isn't intended to be all that deep. It's just a narration of a scene I wish I could find. It's part one of a series of seasonally tuned passages about the girl I wish I knew, and I wish I could meet some day.
Perhaps it is not intended to be deep, but beauty is so very often removed from such notions as intent. Allegory, aesthetic, these things are so often the products of the viewer's own understanding of an image, not necessarily the creator's. I cannot count the times others have found a greater profundity in my own art than I did; does that make it any shallower? Perhaps my intent is rendered shallow, but there comes a point when artistic intent and (subjective) artistic reality diverge.
So it is less a question of whether you intended to convey as sense of depth, and moreso thus: if that was not your intent, might you consider the ways in which the piece may be improved (if indeed these would be improvements), such that its potential depth is better expressed?
I've made a sort of resolution to avoid revising my own work, at least for a while now. As it is probably more productive to simply make more new things, and revise that which I feel deserves the extra effort. So, I will learn from the criticism and suggestions given to me, and perhaps incorporate that into further works.