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Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley:heart:

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Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
~Marianne Moore
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:bulletblue: Current Prompt :bulletblue:
Write a Cento!
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Group Rules



This Group is dedicated to all kinds of poetry.
But please follow the rules. They are here to protect the group and ensure that we all get along.
Thank you!


:salute: RULES: :salute:

:bulletred: Poetry only!
:bulletred: Mature content is fine as long as it has the appropriate filter on it. Otherwise, it will be removed from the group and we will send a note to the author.
:bulletred: You can submit poetry by yourself, or suggest the work of other deviants. But never attempt to claim someone else's work as your own!
:bulletred: You will only be allowed to submit three deviations per week.
:bulletred: Membership is for everyone! So, invite, invite, invite! The more the merrier! =)
:bulletred: The "Featured" folder is for contest winners and those works we think deserve special recognition only! No exceptions.
:bulletred: The other folders can be submitted to freely.
:bulletred: There will be folders created specially for prompts and contests.


CRITIQUE FOLDER RULES:

Can be found in a Journal here: fav.me/d6typ0e

Please, respect the rules and have fun!

Now, get writing and submitting!

:iconinkpotplz::iconkittydividerplz::iconkittydivider2plz::iconkittydivider3plz::iconkittydivider4plz::iconquillplz:

Hi Everyone! :wave:

Sorry for the delay in the critique department newsletter. ^^;

so, today's newsletter is going to be special :iconsoulpianosmashplz:

Today I'm going to feature the current team, and what to look forward to in their poems :dummy:!

Alright, here we go!

NotenSMSK :iconnotensmsk:

the original founder of the group critique department ( ^^; oops thanks for pointing that NotenSMSK ), he has submissions ranging from 6WS, haikus and couplets, to fully developed poems which have a unique form and thought both.

Dear Vincent Van Gogh,"If only you'd painted Dorian's portrait." Waltzing his last danceThe hall slowly fills;
there is not a tremor, not a sound.
The silence instills
the beating hearts of those that stand around.
Merriment then swells;
its satiating tremble within so profound
but alas there is but one man,
that waltzes to a tune unfound.
The merriment grows
as heels tap and dresses sway.
The bodies glow
with the light shimmering over the ballet.
The melody flows
for all participants are joyful and gay
yet woeful is the man in the corner
that dances a dance of dismay.
People laugh;
the girls in the hall giggle and pose
on the men's behalf
displaying their ornamented clothes;
the splendor in craft
invites many woos and bellows
while wearing a battered old suit
the man unnoticed sways on his toes.
Each lad takes a hand, 
of one of the many, graceful girls,
since the dance began
since then the couples gracefully swirl
Others seat on divans
letting their sonnets of love unfurl
yet a
Tears of a Happy EndingIt was a happy ending,
yet happy it was not.
Inscribed through heartless and decayed
processions of horrid crusades,
like tales of love and truth betrayed;
it holds no happy thought.
What of the happy ending
the poet himself despised?
With saccharine expressions brewed -
such vivid tales of love accrued,
what breathless literature construed,
riddled in mocking lies.
What mournful happy ending
though cherished it may seem
that serves a purpose solely vile;
constructs by one all through defiled,
such deeds that led him to exile
conjuring wicked schemes.
It was a happy ending
one written oh so well.
Yet dreams it has that still remain
like uncorked bottles of champagne
ensnared by manacles and chains
imprisoned and impelled.
What dreams oh happy ending
what fantasies you hold?
What myriad blossoms of yours
what wishes that so wish to soar
what roses that you so adore
are withering in the cold?
Your wish oh happy ending
as it appears to me
is of a grasp that grasps at him
that cracks that
Dreams come trueI don't wish perfection and for those who do -
They're just dreaming dreams, never meant to come true.
Autumn's dance"The autumn leaves dance
Merrily, while the wind sings
Of their glory days."


prettyflour :iconprettyflour:

Among the original critics of the group, her works are usually free verse; with that said there's always an interesting thought they offer whenever they're written :nod:

Absolute TruthYour truth tries to sparkle,
cliche-flowery language wilting beneath my all-American, bold-face style.
I’ll give you the gospel and a glass of something strong.
My Truth is jagged, ugly and completely worthwhile.
 
Your higher education is moot,
The words that you studied flawed.
I’ll give you props for your stellar mustache
But your gross overuse of aphorisms should be out-lawed.
 
I’m not an enemy of truth,
I’m a drunken Gonzo journalist, forever!
I was in awe of your madness.
Until I found out it was from syphilis, playa.
 
Guess you didn’t study that disease.
Guess you didn’t need that information.
The nitty-gritty truth comes in all forms.
Had you never considered masturbation?
 
I learned to rebel with drugs and Hell’s Angels.
I went a little mad in my youth.
I wrote of what I saw in this twisted world.
A raconteur of absolute truth.
 
I’m counter-c
YouParched, starving
for profound waters.
In the early morning
you touch my scars,
you rise above time,
you don't unplug me,
YOU are my sweetest downfall.
a seraph in the stormBeneath the shimmering surface
a thousand pieces
all in white
are the angels who can't fly.
Peeling away
the moon's scars,
the fallen angels
are stitching seems-
little hopes in the stormy sea.
A wicked wind blows
immortal embers
into a new dawn
where we can walk together
in the last shafts of sunlight. 
Masterpiecea Monet sunset
dotted along the canvas
with clouds by Van Gogh
IntroMy heart beat steady-
softly behind my ribs.
The hardest working muscle in my body 
and I hardly ever noticed it.
There was an ink-stained sky
above me
swirling like a Van Gogh,
an angry sea raging
beside me
ready to swallow me whole.
I didn't bat an eyelash.
It was his hands on my skin,
fingertips haunting every nerve ending
sending my heart 
into a cadence that made my chest pound.
My pulse was the snare 
and his the kick drum pumping heavy bass.
Weaving a rhythm so simple,
so new,
so profound in its effect
on me.


Michel-le-fou :iconmichel-le-fou:

Michel has written many poems while here on dA, some being of the fantasy genre; in most cases they're puabi poems.

The GlyphsThe Glyphs
Strange glyphs upon a stone wall
The readers are confused
A time beyond our reckoning
"We were not created then."
"Indeed not. This is too old,
Too long ago."
"What of those figures?"
The figures told of creatures before our time
As old as the earth itself
Names strange and unearthly
Unspeakable words
At last, they turned to go
Heart of the Woman IIHeart of the Woman
For Puabi
What will glow like fire every night?
What will shine like the stars?
What will glimmer so brightly
That one will see it from afar?
What will have value more than precious stones,
More than silver and gold?
What has a price so dear when bought 
But never should be sold?
Men, if you don't know, then ask your wives; if they don't know, then  ask Puabi.
Prodigal's SearchProdigal's Search
Tormented in school, berated at home
A constant need to live this life alone
I finished school to go abroad
My heart weighed with a heavy load
And every step I took then
Echoed with my mother's voice
An empty heart and a sad soul
Need time to recover and become whole
I needed to live among caring men
So I would not relive that life again
But still I heard that woman's voice
I wandered far and away back then
Vowing never to return home again
Haunted and hounded by my mother's ghost
Peace is desired but it has a heavy cost
Only now at the side of one I love
Who heals and soothes with a velvet glove
Does that voice soften and sound like the wind
And drift away like my dreams from my mind
And in the end I realized
That only my father and my sister cared
The former supported me till now more than I knew
The latter supports me at every thing I do
And I no longer hear that awful voice
Love Haiku 3Love Haiku #3
For Puabi
Far from the simple souls
In the quiet of my single room
I have mood for love
Love TankaLove Tanka
Oh l'amour
Ton forme est femme
Belle tendre douce chaude
Parfoi la violent incendie
Parfoi l'ange bienveillant et douce
Appele Puabi


fernknits :iconfernknits:

Fernknits had joined our staff around the middle of last year. With that said, her writing is among the most diverse in terms of thought, or form. She writes in both traditional formats as well as free verse.

Phos hilaronIf I say, "Surely the darkness will cover me, and the light around me turn to night," darkness is not dark to thee, O Lord; the night is as bright as the day; darkness and light to thee are both alike.     Psalm 139:10,11
We join our hands against the lengthening night: 
two blue candles, a rose, another blue.
We sit at table in the candlelight,
chanting the ancient hymn, "O gracious Light."
We thank God for the old year and the new,
and join our hands against the lengthening night.
We bless and break according to the rite,
and pass the bread, and ladle out the stew,
sitting at table in the candlelight.
The candles burn; the flickering room is bright.
Darkness is never dark; the light shines through.
We join our hands against the lengthening night.
We eat and talk, the shadows never quite
abolishing the light.  Dark is not true.
We sit at table in the candlelight.
Beloved to beloved, holding tight:
here we find strength to face the da
At sixI lived in a dark house,
the shadows of tall trees dimming the daylight,
secrets dimming the evening lamps.
Bedtime came too early
that winter, and bath-time, with sister,
slippery and bubble-blowing, soap
stinging between my legs.
I remember the night-light, shaped
like a candle's flame, shining orange-yellow
through the strangeness, on my blanket.
That light made everything softer:
my prayers, my water cup, my dolls, all
safe on the bed with me, my father
standing at the foot.  
The breath of him took my breath
away.  I did not look; I did not
meet his eyes; I did not answer.
I will speak of innocence
in the twilight, when he sat
and told ghost stories, and when he whispered
of his own childhood, lost with his father,
and when he sang to me as if
I were his beloved, his only child, his one.
I hid my heart in the dusk
of that winter.  Spring never came,
nor summer.  Instead, a stormy autumn,
soggy golden leaves whirling
frantic through the chilly wind.
And the snow
The SleeperYou were out cold.
Is there any higher treason?  You slept
so hard with that movie on, snoring
and so I breathed your air --
then with a sharp sigh
broke your silence. 
I interrupted your sleeper.
I broke your silence.
Now look 
what you've done.
Even if you did drag me 
up, by my hair,
your sullen staircase,
gasping -- your air --
even if you dropped me face down
on my blue carpet
and kicked,
even if you smashed
my 33 RPM's and my ceramics --
the hungry, iridescent pig,
the little girl on her knees 
all in pink, the Beatles, 
and the Stones which were 
really my mother's --
even if you did turn my mattress
bottom up, over my head
and tear the leg off
my favorite baby doll
you still would not have
in this rage of yours
forced me to cry.
Pro MusicaGhosts of freshmen, 
lost in these catacombs, 
listen to our song.
Slipping into the tunnels
as far as barriers allow, 
flashlights flickering, 
and out --
we hold hands in the dark,
and lift our voices. 
Tenors scale to pure elation 
and bring us along, 
shuddering, 
back down.
We rise and fall together.  
Our music brightens tired graffiti 
and clears stale air. 
The nascent sound echoes
into heating pipes, 
and creeps through
to pondering men and women --
quietly coloring their time.
Postpartum   Sleepless
I rush
to your crib
    shadows
in my mind --
your sobbing
makes me consider
    shaken 
baby syndrome,
whetted knives,
dashing you 
to the ground --
this motherhood 
    nightmare
does not agree
with my hunger
for ceaseless 
    oblivion.


DannyMechanist :icondannymechanist:

Dan's a staff critic whose poems are open ended, but often times either through their form or through their perspective shared, are worth reading :)

Love is blindness"love is blindness"
but is it though?
or is it just plain death?
It intoxicates;
body and soul,
with poison, every breath
Ensnaring you,
consuming you,
until there's nothing left
but you can't live
or breath at all
if of it, you're bereft
and so it is
the cusp wherein
life was first from death cleft
so it is life
and verily
in it is also death
The ClairvoyantScribing 'pon this paper heart
In letters of blood and bile
So forlorn, devoid of hope
Having not smiled, awhile
One can't but help, to wonder how
this hallowed form became as is
Its melancholic empty eyes
and lips that tell of sorrow's kiss
And wonder how even in this plight
this figure speaks of God
how He hath blessed it clearest sight
"Clairvoyance from the Lord."
It speaks of angels, righteous deeds
and beauties of the earth
and finds solace among men of God
being so devoid of mirth
Awaiting death with open arms
the figures sees a friend
One wonders how the fear was cured
How did it break the trend
How hath this being itself thus freed
from Satan's dark temptation
Must be quite some secret
hidden in this appreciation
NumbnessDoes love not but hurt,
Does care not but burn
With sorrow and mirth
each taking its turn
Does life not but die,
does death not but live
We all dance this dance,
our fullest we give
The stage is now set,
once more shall I dance
and losing myself
shall take on more chance
to see if love hurts
and if care really burns
to see if life dies
and death lives in turn
a desert night'Tis quiet maybe too much so
Perhaps the abyss beckons
But is this all very much so
As this weary caravan reckons?
Lucid DreamsIn the dark of night
a million thoughts beckoning
but in hushed voices 


randomphilosopher :iconrandomphilosopher:

A staff critic who has a free verse approach, but one with a significant importance given to theme, thought, perspective, and are in my opinion, really well written.

The EndThere may come a day when
for my desertion of the way everlasting
I burn for that day
and for the rest of days.
There may come a day
when my friends and I must say goodbye
as one of us enters bliss and
the other enters torment.
There may come a day when I curse God
for not being good, as I hoped he was,
and for my curses I go away and I suffer;
there may come a day when I will never see
the ones I love ever again,
and there may come a day when this blip of an existence
simply blinks out,
and the world sputters out like a candle in a harsh draft,
And God may not be good
And God may not be,
And there may be an end to every good thing,
But that doesn't change the fact that it was.
And for one day, we loved, and we were.
RebirthWhen people talk about the phoenix
they don't talk about how much pain
she goes through
in every rebirth.
When people talk about the phoenix
they use her as a symbol of hope
but her every death
scorches her colored feathers
melts off her skin
and finally smolders directly into her bones
And she feels it all -
Down 'til she is just ashes on the ground
She knows her dying breath and beyond dying
She must somehow stretch
And reform herself
Just from dust
Just from the dust she arises
And again must relive a humble childhood
When people talk about the phoenix
they don't talk about how
she must relearn humility
through every rebirth
When people talk about the phoenix
they forget to mention
that every time she dies
and comes back to life
she has to relearn how to fly.
ArizonaHe said that every year they always
have a few jumpers.
Sailing down the canyon wall,
Casting off life like some sort of shroud,
Or shedding it early like fresh snake skin.
I sit at the edge of the room with purple
decor.
Karen tries to move for me, but
I stubbornly sit on the fourth stair, my feet on the landing
above her.
"I don't understand how someone could do that,"
my mother said.
Well,
"If you're gonna go out, you might as well go out
with a bang."
Grapes, the translucent body of that lamp,
And a painting on the wall -
The color purple always puts me ill at ease.
In the purple room, my grandparents
model something
intangible and sweet, love
winging its way around the room
to soften more hearts than two.
I winced through these days with my heart
Leaping out of my throat
Ready to fling itself
Ripe over the Grand Canyon.
The ghouls or my souls tell me
"It's true I shall not live forever."
I took a breather to read myself
A book that told me
People like me
Flirt with death
More than
Our church is all made out of shipwrecksLet's sit slowly in a coffee shop for hours, love.
I don't want you; I just want your presence.
Let me marvel in your majestic light,
And someday maybe you will see me too.
But for now we'll watch each other's wrinkles turn into smile lines.
We'll relearn the meaning of love
And hold each other up and away from the black flames
Burning at the bottom of our souls.
Ice cold water splashing it all away
In short shocking bursts of wonder.
That this could ever exist -
That we could ever meet
And hold hands underneath a budding, breathing sycamore
That watches, and remembers all our hopes.
We'll write them down in books
And I'll record the swirling colors.
I'll mark the first rainbow.
And the first heart's glow grown warm
In the middle of an eight-armed hug
And eight eyes laughing
At what is too good to believe in quite yet,
But what we can't but hope is really real.
Let's sit for quiet hours beneath the trees, love,
But our hearts will be anything but quiet.
But if mine is to scream,
I'll s
Stars will leave holes that I'll fill up with hopeI stand here in the doorway
I hear you calling me.
I can see out there galaxies
Of light and darkness
Of color, and so much pain.
And I have to ask myself, why leave?
I fell in love with the stars
But up close they burn your skin.
And I could still turn around,
Maybe, I could still turn around,
And stay here, in your comforting arms.
I know that stars pierce skin.
I know your arms are the place I've felt the most at home
Of anywhere or anything.
You, my love, and everything I've ever known,
I'd leave behind.
Because something out there is calling me.
At least I believe it is.
And it's a name that's brighter than your hope
And of deeper peace than your eyes.
No comfort calls me there.
No solids to fill up the void in the pit of my stomach.
I know from the fleeting thoughts at the top of my head
To the rocks in my toes
That this is real, and that forever from now on,
I will be empty.


Well, that's our core staff :) Do send them some love by :+fav: these works, or featuring them, or even commenting on them.

Cheers, and stay happy :)
More Journal Entries

Recent Journal Entries

Admins

A poem begins with a lump in the throat.
~Robert Frost
:heart:

:bulletred: Editor in Chief:

:iconriseandbestronger:
RiseandbeStronger
Hi guys! My name is Mo. I am 23. I have been a member of dA for 5 years, and a writer for 10 years. This is my first Founder position, but I was Co-founder of Poets-and-Warriors at the birth of the group (check them out, they are friends!). My other passions include psychology, movies, sit-coms and books. I am a happy wife and mother of a perfect 1 year old boy. Poetry was my first love and I can't wait to see what this group can become!

:bulletred: Editors:

:iconshehrozeameen:
shehrozeameen
(Head of Critique Department)
Shehroze Ameen; 21 years old (Aries, 13 April 1991); student, Ata-Ur-Rehman School of Applied Biosciences (BS Applied Biosciences); writer by hobby, though a discontinuous reading of English literature, with minor exceptions among Urdu literature, has a significant influence in his critical analysis of works - usually snobby and, slightly moronic, but a fun loving person with a sincere devotion towards the task at hand; friends with *NotenSMSK since the third grade; no future plans; cynic; and an avid listener.

:iconprettyflour:
prettyflour
(Critic and Staff Blogger)
I'm prettyflour- woman, mother, artist and DA junkie. I have constant love affairs with various art forms. Whether it be writing poetry, stories, taking pictures or drawing, it is all passion sprouting from my fingertips.

:iconkireinova:
KireiNova
(Honorary Editor, Former Founder)
I live in a small town in Southern Michigan and am still only a high school student. But I try to find the time to write; which is my true passion. I try to be outgoing, so if you have a question, feel free to ask! I'm 18 and currently focusing my attention into Basic Design and getting ready for college and what not. If you want to know more, feel free to ask. (:

:bulletred: Staff Bloggers:

:iconmadameshadowenn:
madameshadowenn
(Member DD and DLD Watch)
Hey everyone, I'm Jasmine a 20 year old English girl. I'm a poet (and insanely jealous of visual artists) who is currently studying BioSciences at Uni. I'm also a bit of a nerd - I love videogames, anything science related and various other things. If you want to know more, just note me, I promise I'll answer!

:iconmiserabel:
miserabel
(Member of The Month)
Law student, internet addict and experimental non-rhyming poetry writer. In charge of the monthly member feature. Question? Come at me; I'll answer best I can.

:iconseaplume:
SeaPlume
(Affiliate/Community Update)
Hi, everyone!
I'm a college student in the U.S. studying marine biology, but I have a keen interest in the arts. I enjoy visual artwork, music, and theater, as well as prose and poetry. I love to read, especially fantasy and science fiction. My creative writing abilities are primarily self-developed and informed by my love of literature. On deviantART, I follow and contribute to a number of literature groups and am eager to share my findings!


:bulletred: Staff Critics:

:iconmichel-le-fou:
Michel-le-fou
Age and sexual preferences aside, I am a writer of long standing, principally a poet but preferably a fiction writer. My current endeavors are horror/suspense and science fiction, as I enjoy reading them and have read them since my schooldays. Favorite authors are Lovecraft and Howard, Jules Verne and HG Wells respectively. I read the Mythos in USA a long time ago. I am fair at graphic art too.
Graduated in BA in Literature in USA in 1980 and went abroad.
I believe that the best critics of literature are writes, as Matthew Arnold and Percy Shelley critiqued others. My policy is fairness and openness.

:iconnotensmsk:
NotenSMSK
Name: NotenSMSK or perhaps SMSK
Age: 20
Occupation: Student
Hobbies: Writing, debating, reading, playing sports, sleeping.
Hello I am NotenSMSK preferably SMSK, a student from Pakistan who has a keen interest in writing. I write to improve as well as promote. I am working on a book at the moment, despite final year at university. I like helping people with critiques/comments but if a person gets unreasonably rude with me, I might respond in a similar manner. Otherwise, I prefer being polite :)


:iconfernknits:
fernknits
I'm fernknits -- wife, mother, knitter, quilter, spinner, poet, lover of cats. I have been writing poetry for most of my life and have recently come back from a long hiatus. I believe in giving supportive, honest feedback as part of being a responsible and active community member.


:icondannymechanist:
DannyMechanist
Name: Muhammad Danyal Ajaz Saleem
DOB: 21st Oct 1992
Art forms practiced: Poetry (English, Urdu), Prose (English, Urdu)
Personality Outlined: Sociable, anti-social-ish, kind of melancholic but not sad, committed as a friend but awkward around new people, limited comfort zone and a slightly bipolar temper. Also has been told he has the moral fortitude of a 17th century count and the mental age of a 40 year old.
Outlook on literature: must come form the heart, must be acceptably phrased, anyone can be a writer as long as they have something to say and pay attention to HOW they say it.

:iconrandomphilosopher:
randomphilosopher

Hi, I'm A.J. Miller. I prefer Daft Punk to Adele any day. I game, very casually. I love poetry and tea and chocolate on the days my stomach doesn't hate me. My stomach is a Dalek Emperor. You don't anger the Dalek Emperor. Got music? Share it with meeeeeee. I have a pathological need to find more music all the time. I love pallas cats.
I am very intelligent and very lazy. We are trying to resolve some unknown emotional issues that cause sudden bouts of badassery interspersed with long expanses of mediocrity. I collect weird, fascinating, broken people.

Editor in Chief


:iconriseandbestronger:

Editors


:iconprettyflour::iconshehrozeameen::iconkireinova:

Staff Bloggers


:iconmadameshadowenn::icongingersanps::iconseaplume:

Staff Critics


:iconmichel-le-fou::iconnotensmsk::icondannymechanist::iconfernknits::iconrandomphilosopher:

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconmalintra-shadowmoon:
Malintra-Shadowmoon Apr 13, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh, how beautiful. I cannot say other. What a gorgeous starlit background :wow:
Reply
:iconianderickson:
ianderickson Apr 3, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I just submitted a sestina called The Question. I really hope you enjoy it!
Reply
:icon2snails1shell:
2snails1shell Mar 26, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
We just submitted two poems: 'Dearest Love of Mine' and 'Flaxen Buzz'. We hope you enjoy them. Thanks for starting such a great group! :D Kirk & Kiki :D
Reply
:iconfableweaver55:
fableweaver55 Mar 24, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for accepting me in your group!
Reply
:iconexerxes:
Exerxes Mar 16, 2014  New member Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for accepting :heart:
Reply
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