Currently Untitled
#1
*Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!


I’m somewhere caught between inspiration
and crumpling up every idea I have.

I am slicing pizza at work
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem,
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.

I live my life as if it were an allegory
for something far more romantic.

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes.

Observing sad people in bland settings
does not push me to create like it should,
but causes me to feel disgust at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.

At the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know
every corner of this confounding world.
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#2
Hey AJ. I liked a lot of this. It feels like a brainstorming response to writer's block, but maybe only because you said it was. I dunno.


(07-25-2014, 09:23 AM)ajcohen613 Wrote:  *Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!

I’m somewhere caught between inspiration do you need "somewhere"?
and crumpling up every idea I have. nice
In the middle of the day, I am at work slicing pizza
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem,
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.
When there’s nothing of substance left,
I write about writing.
There are no rolling hills or vanquishing oceans are these 2 images specific or random?
to afford my dim Word documents.
There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors really like this and the next line
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I want to communicate
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes. I think here "provided" is right for "cure", but not so much for "poison" --I only nitpick here because I like the idea of this line so much.
Observing pained people in bland settings does not
push me to create either, no,
but causes me to feel disgust at my lack of worry,I might change "but" to "it" here for "either, no" to work in the above line.[b]

my lack of internal material. I think your title is somewhere in these next few lines. My gut instinct is "First Person" - since you are already writing about writing.
Those sad wrinkled fingers should be the ones
writing my poems.
With an awkward amount of time on my hands
and at the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know every
foreign corner of this confounding world.
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#3
Edits have been made! Still untitled..
"Where there are roses we plant doubt.
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,
and forever not knowing, we ponder."

-Fernando Pessoa
Reply
#4
(07-25-2014, 09:23 AM)ajcohen613 Wrote:  *Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!


I’m somewhere caught between inspiration (remove "something")
and crumpling up every idea I have. (This seems an unnecessarily awkward)

In the middle of the day, I am at work slicing pizza
("I am at work slicing pizza" keep this and throw out everything else from the first two lines)
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem, (and)
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.

When there’s nothing of substance left,
I write about writing.
There are no rolling hills or vanquishing oceans
to afford my dim Word documents. (This doesn't relate much to the next stanza, which seems to be your main point, I would suggest removing)

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes. (good stanza)

Observing sad people in bland settings does not
push me to create like it should,
but causes me to feel upset at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.
Those sad wrinkled fingers should be the ones
writing my poems.

With an awkward amount time on my hands
and at the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know every
corner of this confounding world.

The fourth stanzas is a great deal better than your other stanzas. I also think it's your most coherent point. You are going way out of your way, word wise, to basically say I have writer's block. There are skills to writing this rambling sort of poem. Two basic ones are cadence, and incidental rhyme to create energy for the poem. Neither are in existence here as far as I can tell. Instead of giving energy to the reader, it sucks energy from the reader.

Sorry, I can't be more positive, but except for the fourth stanza, nothing else seems inspired.


Dale
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?

The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
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#5
(07-25-2014, 03:10 PM)Erthona Wrote:  
(07-25-2014, 09:23 AM)ajcohen613 Wrote:  *Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!


I’m somewhere caught between inspiration (remove "something")
and crumpling up every idea I have. (This seems an unnecessarily awkward)

In the middle of the day, I am at work slicing pizza
("I am at work slicing pizza" keep this and throw out everything else from the first two lines)
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem, (and)
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.

When there’s nothing of substance left,
I write about writing.
There are no rolling hills or vanquishing oceans
to afford my dim Word documents. (This doesn't relate much to the next stanza, which seems to be your main point, I would suggest removing)

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes. (good stanza)

Observing sad people in bland settings does not
push me to create like it should,
but causes me to feel upset at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.
Those sad wrinkled fingers should be the ones
writing my poems.

With an awkward amount time on my hands
and at the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know every
corner of this confounding world.

The fourth stanzas is a great deal better than your other stanzas. I also think it's your most coherent point. You are going way out of your way, word wise, to basically say I have writer's block. There are skills to writing this rambling sort of poem. Two basic ones are cadence, and incidental rhyme to create energy for the poem. Neither are in existence here as far as I can tell. Instead of giving energy to the reader, it sucks energy from the reader.

Sorry, I can't be more positive, but except for the fourth stanza, nothing else seems inspired.


Dale

Duly noted.

(07-25-2014, 03:13 PM)ajcohen613 Wrote:  
(07-25-2014, 03:10 PM)Erthona Wrote:  
(07-25-2014, 09:23 AM)ajcohen613 Wrote:  *Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!


I’m somewhere caught between inspiration (remove "something")
and crumpling up every idea I have. (This seems an unnecessarily awkward)

In the middle of the day, I am at work slicing pizza
("I am at work slicing pizza" keep this and throw out everything else from the first two lines)
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem, (and)
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.

When there’s nothing of substance left,
I write about writing.
There are no rolling hills or vanquishing oceans
to afford my dim Word documents. (This doesn't relate much to the next stanza, which seems to be your main point, I would suggest removing)

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes. (good stanza)

Observing sad people in bland settings does not
push me to create like it should,
but causes me to feel upset at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.
Those sad wrinkled fingers should be the ones
writing my poems.

With an awkward amount time on my hands
and at the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know every
corner of this confounding world.

The fourth stanzas is a great deal better than your other stanzas. I also think it's your most coherent point. You are going way out of your way, word wise, to basically say I have writer's block. There are skills to writing this rambling sort of poem. Two basic ones are cadence, and incidental rhyme to create energy for the poem. Neither are in existence here as far as I can tell. Instead of giving energy to the reader, it sucks energy from the reader.

Sorry, I can't be more positive, but except for the fourth stanza, nothing else seems inspired.


Dale

Duly noted.

Though I do appreciate your detailed critique, I feel as if I need to defend something you criticized: I feel as if there is a clear enough connection between my third and fourth stanza. My third stanza illustrates the idea that I've exhausted plenty attempts at writing about my surroundings (hills and an ocean). In the fourth stanza, it was meant to be illustrated that the same applies for the girl I love - I've written many short poems in her dedication. Also, I'm wondering what you mean by uninspired. This is no way an attack on your critique! Just a curious writer responding to feedback Smile
"Where there are roses we plant doubt.
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,
and forever not knowing, we ponder."

-Fernando Pessoa
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#6
i enjoyed it apart from the third stanza which felt unnecessary. the 4th stanza was excellent.
thanks for the read

(07-25-2014, 09:23 AM)ajcohen613 Wrote:  *Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!


I’m somewhere caught between inspiration
and crumpling up every idea I have. i like the opening couplet because it sets up the poets frame of mind.

In the middle of the day, I am at work slicing pizza
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem, a suggestion would be [the] instead of [this]
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.

When there’s nothing of substance left,
I write about writing.
There are no rolling hills or vanquishing oceans
to afford my dim Word documents. not sure this stanza helps the poem at all. in fact i think it's a bit misleading in that it's to much of a juxtaposition and only a few lines long, it also feels in the wrong place in poem, if anything i think it best suited for the end.

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff these two lines are superb. specially the 2nd, it reeks of unrequited love
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes.

Observing sad people in bland settings does not
push me to create like it should,
but causes me to feel upset at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.
Those sad wrinkled fingers should be the ones
writing my poems. not sure about the enjambment in this stanza would does not be better on the next line down, i think you can play around a lot with the enjambment in this stanza and create more of an experience for the reader. ie;

Observing sad people in bland settings
does not push me
to create like it should,
but causes me to feel upset
at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.


With an awkward amount time on my hands
and at the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know every
corner of this confounding world.
Reply
#7
More edits have been made..I'm pretty determined to at least salvage something here.
"Where there are roses we plant doubt.
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,
and forever not knowing, we ponder."

-Fernando Pessoa
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#8
I agree you should take out the 3rd stanza. I really enjoyed this piece. That doesn't happen much. Keep writing new stuff. Let this one sit for a while. Anyway, I think its pretty much done.
Best wishes,
poe
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#9
(07-25-2014, 06:40 PM)poe Wrote:  I agree you should take out the 3rd stanza. I really enjoyed this piece. That doesn't happen much. Keep writing new stuff. Let this one sit for a while. Anyway, I think its pretty much done.
Best wishes,
poe

Thank you! Hope you enjoyed the new edits.
"Where there are roses we plant doubt.
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,
and forever not knowing, we ponder."

-Fernando Pessoa
Reply
#10
AJ, good piece, I liked the use of "round" for the van-halen lover.

I especially liked the verse below, it brought a smile to my face to say you "enjambed" her to the edge of a cliff, and I liked that you left "cliff" at the end of the line. JG

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes.
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