How the silence bothers me again. In love, I listen, waiting for a sign. I drink the emptiness, the darkness. I smile funny, I think beautifully. I look at myself - I burst out laughing. I am sick in every way and omnipotent. Time is waiting for me - I told him again. If it crawls on me, it crawls - horrible, it will happen soon, a month or two ago, I will beg him: "Return, to another, not now", I will stay up late in the quiet alone, I will count the pictures: "I remember them like this: when mom and dad were just mom and dad, and the moon licked me with just an icy tongue, and I clung to her, a little tired of how, and dancing in memory of the still great - there were lined up away from me bottles smelling. I immersed myself in the child in all directions, where he did not dig for a way out - I still keep it here. I let them all go and they sprinkled me with amnesia, it breathes; And it happens soon, and in a month, two, and I do not ask - the memory is still now, and I stay up late in the quiet alone, and the number of pictures, a sweet game. 23. 06. 15г. I love to write and I want to know if I can touch others with my work, so I ask you, moderators, to publish my poem even if you don't like it - I need constructive criticism. I am 18 and I will dedicate my life to literature, whether I turn out to be a talent or a failure as a writer. As a hobby I write both in prose and in verse. I shivered with sweetness every time it turned out that I had free time to indulge in writing - I guess this is my favorite way to "count pictures". I adore all forms of art, I develop my intellect and, although I am not a person of uniformity, I can imagine absolutely every day of the rest of my life spent writing and die of happiness in the process. I have positive energy and I will be happy if I can share at least a part of it with the world through my work. In order to improve and learn to be really useful to potential readers, I need criticism, a lot of criticism. Please!
Answers 7
I'm sorry, I have nothing to criticize - he touched me, smiled at me, I felt positive energy :-). Give me something else.
It's good. But there is no criticism from me. However, when I read what you wrote after your verse, my thought took me to a quote from the Nobel lecture by Joseph Brodsky, which I want to share with you, because I, like you, find meaning in those endless minutes when time stops, and thoughts materialize. I think I see in this the miracle of creation itself. Intention is born in feeling, and it swirls in the world, finds a receiver and becomes a verse or a story, and then it becomes a message. I call this perfection. But here is the quote: One writes a poem for various reasons… He resorts to this form - the poem - rather for unconscious-mimetic reasons: the black vertical clot of words among the white sheet of paper probably reminds the person of his own position in the world, for the proportions of space to its body. But regardless of the reasons for which he grabs the pen, and regardless of the effect created by what comes out from under his pen, on the audience, no matter how big or small it is - the immediate consequence of this act is the feeling of entering depending on the same, on everything that has already been said to him, written and done. This dependence is absolute, despotic, but it also liberates. Because, being always older than the writer, language has a colossal centrifugal energy, given to it by its temporal potential - that is, by all future time. (…) The poet, I repeat, is a means of the existence of language. (…) The writer of a poem does not write it because he relies on posthumous fame, although he often hopes that the poem will outlive him at least for a while. The writer of a poem writes it because his language suggests or simply dictates the next verse. Starting the poem, the poet usually does not know how to finish it and often turns out to be very surprised by what happened, because it often turns out better than he thought, often his thoughts go further than he expected. . This is exactly the moment when the future of language interferes with its present. As we know, there are three methods of knowledge: analytical, intuitive, and the one used by the biblical prophets - revelation. The difference between poetry and the three methods is that it uses all three at the same time (emphasizing the second and third), since all three are given to us in language; and sometimes with the help of a word, a rhyme, the writer of a poem manages to get there, where no one had been before him — and farther, perhaps, than he himself wanted. The writer of a poem writes it first of all, because poetry is a colossal accelerator of consciousness, of thinking, of world perception. Once one has experienced this acceleration, one is no longer able to give up repeating the experience, one becomes addicted to this process, just as one becomes addicted to drugs and alcohol. The person who is so dependent on language should, I suppose, be called a poet. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– it becomes dependent on this process, just as it falls on drugs and alcohol. The person who is so dependent on language should, I suppose, be called a poet. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– it becomes dependent on this process, just as it falls on drugs and alcohol. The person who is so dependent on language should, I suppose, be called a poet. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
None of the modern authors and publishers would pay attention to you with this way of writing. This is the cruel truth. We live in a time when Bulgarian poetry is in post-modernism. Write about yourself, or change your style. I dropped the classic verse and the clichéd rhymes myself, and things got better.
Darling, I'm joining because of the comment on n3. In no case DO NOT CHANGE your style! She speaks like a merchant, and you are a poet. You put your soul and heart, your feeling, that's why I read you several times. I would pay for the feeling you give us, and not for goods commensurate with the market. If you press the poet's soul with the commercial consciousness, you better open a shop for some trinkets. Feel, laugh, dream and express this on the list, to make us happy too!
From the author: I thought to wait a few days so as not to interrupt the comments, but there is no way ... To you, sweethearts: Reflection. I dropped two tears in my small mirror, a muffled ring enveloping my poor body. I believe in beauty. I saw you then, it hit me with dreams, I shed two tears with my young body. There are from before, I keep from spilling. Echo holds me, your voice sings in me. I'm still a fool, my poor body, it's from before, I'm careful not to spill, I'm whole with you now. 25. 06. 15. I believed in myself a little more. If I publish a book, I will dedicate it to you :) As for my style, it is still under construction, so it's no wonder that I include more rhyming verses later, I know, but only if I feel their melody. Now it's up to me to come up with a nickname for you to recognize me: P Here are some old poems (please give opinions), and below them a few more jingles from me: Come. Imagine standing in my little moment. Imagine that you are shaping your sweet face. Think of me once as your soul. I look at you cold, confused. Be who you are, now. Shhh. Quiet darkness over the city. Bright moon in the night. Blow in the wind invisible. The sky floats in clouds. Two or three windows are lit. The bat flies silently. Curved shadows are invited. Stars promise infinity. Magic whispers about sleep. I fell there, to the side. Not downstairs. A ray of eternal weight receded. Need hurt him, pushed him aside, the other aside my silence. Someone has been drowning in the soft streams, in the soft streams of quiet eternity, where the pale is drowning, drowning in the words, in the words flowing on the brilliance of a star. You. Kisses. You kiss me. Saying goodbye. You're holding me. I look at you. You melt. I want you. You appear. I don't know you. And you are gone. I'm smiling. I'm expecting you. Found. A ray of light cuts through the night. Who stands alone on the shore? Another, light as smoke, gave hope to the heart. A third shuddered, and in an instant intertwined with countless more. he will be saved! A twig cracked, and another, under the happy weary feet. Will I wake up tomorrow - smarter, more fun in you at night when I secretly peek, sky? A bathed sparrow in the moonlight and night light is waiting for you to bring it back to a young timid serenity. Can I stumble, an old cry of a baby dream as I walk through the soft curtains? The Milky Way confuses me, so I live in a song. Up, down ... Here. Which of the poems do you like the most? 1., and you know how much I smiled when I realized that I touched you ... 2., your quote amazed me. As well as the extent to which you understood what I was feeling, H., what do you think about the last poem? (I finished it today) Well, anyway, I will not throw away the good old rhyme just for the sake of fashion, I will look for my own style. 4., made me cry ... for a moment I would forget that the most important thing is to write what I feel; and then you appeared ... then the poem appeared. Good night from me!
From 2 I deal professionally with literature and criticism, and at the same time I write. I understand perfectly the impulse that keeps you awake and alive and sick that fills you to empty you. After I write a verse, I light a cigarette ... like after sex. It's like I've just had a mental orgasm;) I'm addicted to it, as Brodsky says. Look at me! At 2:00 in the night I stay awake because I feel him arriving, wandering in my palms. Then I will sleep ... satisfied :) I give you something of my own, which I hope will inspire a little more faith in what you do and live. Dedication to the vigilant poets Friend unknown, who every night under the stars with restless aspiration in verse you arrange the tears and riddles unresolved by faith you only try to arrange yourself; You who feel too young to proudly call yourself a "poet," and the world of your shoulders will overwhelm you at any moment; You, who alone endure human stupidity, malice, revenge, and do not sleep at night if you can reshape this world with words - to become somehow purer; You, who know - you have a mission, but you keep it quiet, because you will be labeled "crazy", and you feel that strange force that makes you stay awake at night; You, unknown friend, dear, who, out of tears and cries, make the most wonderful verse and read it in the dark - a recital of silence, not knowing the thirst for our glory for a moment; You, just you, know that we continue and in the dark, sleepless, armed with white leaves, we connect low, fallen as if in a trance, forgetting that the rays come at dawn and with tears and blood, we always purify this world. Shut up! Do not complain! Your destiny is heavy as a stone. Sleepless and thirsty for righteousness, with a pen in his hand, not to make revolutions bright with an ax and always look in pain for something to leave behind to shine. A bow to you, strangers, to your strength and sorrow. Your room is awake, it may be cramped, but I know you're hiding wings under your shirt ...
:))) such that we don't have an author. I can't say that I liked one more than the other. Everyone gives me a different feeling - nostalgia for childhood, pleasant sadness, a memory of innocent, platonic, childish love ... Do you understand, you know how to give a feeling. Everyone can find something of themselves, something personally experienced. You know how sometimes you listen to a song and feel like you think it was written especially for you. Well, that's the feeling. You're still a little insecure, yes, it's obvious, but even so, it's nice because it's innocent. And how much is missing nowadays to remember and feel this innocence. I also create, but other things. There was a period when I was offered a very serious amount, but the conditions were set by a businessman without a gram of fantasy, he had no way to know / know the feeling. H 2 said it, "mental expression", haha, in the same way I express myself, when they asked me. I refused, of course. So I materialize my dreams, my dreams, my fantasies. They carry a part of me, of my soul. And I did well, because now I have the freedom to "work" from muse to muse. And ... even without hoping for that, I win with satisfaction. This is what I feel when I read you. That's why I joined with the remark :). Love the poet in yourself, let him dream, let him put his thoughts and feelings into words. I think you have a lot of potential, I will allow myself to copy the quote from n 2 "The writer of a poem writes it primarily because poetry is a colossal accelerator of consciousness, of thinking, of world perception. Once one has experienced this acceleration, one is no longer able to give up repeating the experiment, it falls under this process as it depends on drugs and alcohol. The person who is so dependent on language must, I suppose, be called a POET. "